


Time Heals

by a_forgotten_note



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Doctors and Artists and landlords oh my, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Setting the record straight? More like setting the record Gay., Sickfic, Slow Burn, it's not a real victorian romance until someone shows some ankle and someone swoons, meddling ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 153,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22538002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_forgotten_note/pseuds/a_forgotten_note
Summary: With a content sigh, Remus took his legs down from the table and folded his hands calmly. “Thomas, Thomas... let me tell you a tale. A tale of love, loss, silver engravings and poetry readings... and the greatest of secrets held in the confines of a doctor’s bag.”- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Successful Historian Thomas Sanders has devoted his career to the accurate study and research of renowned artists, Roman and Remus Kingsley. There are many well-documented instances of Remus and his lover, one Mister Dee... but what happened to Roman Kingsley? After taking up residence in a Historically Preserved building, Thomas is about to get more than he bargained for.There is more than just dust gathering in this old house; disgruntled spirits are coming back with a purpose to prove the history books wrong.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders, Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders/Deceit Sanders
Comments: 426
Kudos: 638





	1. Prologue

Thomas had wanted to make waves in the history community. He wanted to make the wrongs go right and prove what was so obviously true. “Yes, that scientist was not in a relationship, that didn’t mean he wasn’t sexually active” and “Yes, that artist was in a happy relationship with a well-known businessman, their interactions are written and archived.”

His colleagues – the older men that like to pour over the poetry and works of renowned painters and poets Remus and Roman Kingsley – _despised_ Thomas’ coming into the field. To all written instances, Roman was in a happy homosexual relationship with an unknown man somewhere in London. His writings had been secretive and intimate with a purpose; Roman was somewhat discreet. Remus, however, _hadn’t_ been discreet. His letters, poems, and private correspondence was _overflowing_ with letters to his lover, one Mister Duell (commonly referred to as Mister Dee).

There were mountains of research done on this. Years of proof and statements and confessions of love. Even so, Thomas’s colleagues said it was a “close friendship” and nothing more. It was more than a little frustrating to have all of his hard work invalidated… so he stepped back. He took a breath and extracted himself from the large museums and universities… and looked to a smaller, calmer place to do his work.

He found his place in a historically preserved building. The home of Mister Dee, a large fortress of brick and polished stone, was left on a hill and donated to the university as a historically relevant building. _Someone_ needed to mind it and maintain upkeep. And Thomas jumped at the chance.

After two weeks, it was easy to become accustomed to the sounds and sighs of an old house. Things far away moan and groan and echo down long, preserved hallways. Worn carpet carefully muted the sharper noises, and more often than not, the noises were completely ignorable. Thomas knew this better than anyone. He wasn’t scared of the house — that is to say he wasn’t scared _anymore_. The house itself was very intimidating when he first arrived.

But really, the longer he stayed, the more the house felt like an elderly person that had to shift and settle before taking a nap. The windows whistled from time to time. The floorboards on the west hall whined when Thomas ventured to the far side of the house. And even the stairs crackled and popped sleepily when he descended. If Thomas were whimsical, he might say that the house was talkative. As it should be. It had a lot of history.

A history that Thomas desperately wanted to unveil and set straight for the public record.

But what Thomas didn’t expect was actual _words_ to echo down those halls. The shapes and sounds of actual, English words. When living alone in a historical house, unexpected things are... well... _expected_ to happen. Doors close on their own. Portraits watch you. Things disappear from where you placed them, only to reappear in a completely different place.

This? This was different. Thomas didn’t believe in ghosts (not really, he didn’t really _want_ to believe…) but this was beyond his realm of expertise. There were voices in the house where there should only be the quiet sounds of an old house settling for the night.

The voices sounded strangled. Strained and frustrated. And they came from the first floor. Thomas, against all previous horror-movie knowledge, stood from his desk, left his room, and went for the stairs. It wasn’t a frantic chase. More of a leisurely curiosity. Like a bystander to the whole situation, Thomas put a hand on the banister of the stairs and walked down slowly. The voices were clearer there.

“It isn’t fair!” One shouted, loud and sharp and obviously British.

Thomas thumbed his phone in his pocket, ready to call the police... but he didn’t. This person didn’t sound like a burglar. No... burglars were supposed to be quiet. This person _wanted_ to be heard. After carefully descending the stairs, Thomas gingerly walked across the old wood floors, following the voices.

“All these paintings and writings... love letters! _Love letters_ , darling!”

A new, calmer voice came from the dining room. It was calm... but also a little bitter. “I heard you, Remus.”

Thomas squinted; Remus. As in Remus Kingsley? That wasn’t possible. Once more, Thomas did not believe in ghosts; he didn’t _want_ to believe. But truth was stranger than fiction, or so they say.

The first voice, Remus, shot back, “And they say we were friends. _Friends_.”

“We were friends, my love. Dearest friends.”

Remus wasn’t pleased with that. “We were also _married_ , Dee. Did you forget? Lovely ceremony. Flowers. Cake. Almost enough champagne to drown Lord Brampton...”

“I recall, love.”

Dee. As in the famous _Mister Dee_? Thomas walked slow, reaching out to the dining room door and slowly... carefully... pushing it open.

The door creaked open to reveal two men in the dining room. The table was covered in protective fiberglass to preserve the original wood, but the men didn’t seem to notice it. No, they were busy glaring at the letters laid out beneath the glass. The letters were samples of Mister Dee’s correspondence with his ‘good friend’ Remus Kingsley. It was odd enough they were unhappy with that, but Thomas didn’t mind that.

He was looking at the large portrait above the men. The portrait of the late Mister Dee. The man that stood below it... was identical. Thomas did not believe in ghosts.

Not until that night.

After the creak of the door, Remus raised his head and glared in Thomas’s direction. “Ah. There’s the boy. Stupid boy. Stupid, idiotic, ignorant—"

“Play nice, darling,” Dee said calmly, his eyes still trained on the letters. “He can’t even see us.”

“Can’t hear us either,” Remus grumbled unhappily. “Pain in my arse if I ever—"

Thomas lingered in the doorway, his voice coming to him in a meek whisper as he said, “Uh... I can. I can… hear you.”

Remus and Dee paused, looking at Thomas with wide eyes. Dee looked more disgruntled than anything, but Remus... Remus looked elated. He raced across the dining room, his shirtsleeves billowing as he gestured to himself and crowded Thomas’s space.

“Boy! You can see me!”

Leaning back a bit, Thomas let out a startled laugh. “Y-yeah, I can—"

“Brilliant!” Remus shouted, a wild grin on his face as he glanced back at Dee. “What was I telling you, darling? He’s smart! Smart little boy with his pen and his glowing box!”

Thomas hesitated. A glowing box? “Do... do you mean my phone or my laptop?”

“Curious,” Dee said from the head of the table. “You don’t seem surprised to see us. You do realize we’re deceased, don’t you?”

Feeling his stomach twist anxiously, Thomas fumbled at his pockets. “Well... I can’t... I’m not sure if this is real. I’m probably dreaming. I fell asleep at my desk or something.”

Remus made a face at that, curling the ends of his mustache as he said, “If you’re dreaming, one of us should be naked. The best dreams are the naked ones.”

Still acting aloof, Dee gave Remus a sparing glance. “Behave, dearest.”

“Okay. Okay, uh...” Thomas stepped back, like he was going to leave the dining room... only to pause. “Hang on. Let me just.... you. You’re Remus Kingsley.”

Remus grinned. “In the flesh! Or lack thereof. Oh, that would make in interesting painting. A nude portrait... sans flesh.”

Thomas winced and looked to Dee. “And... and you’re Mister Andréa Duell...” he paused, then added for historical accuracy: “The second.”

Dee raised a single, elegant eyebrow and icily replied: “Andréa was my father. Please, call me Mister Dee.”

Thomas let out a breath; if this was a dream, it meant he was working too hard. All his hours of research and studies were spilling over into his subconscious. But still... what if it wasn’t? What if it was real and he had the ghosts of Remus and Dee in the house with him? They could tell him the truth. Set the record right. Stepping forward, Thomas sputtered, “Were the two of you romantically involved?”

Dee’s expression didn’t waver one iota, but Remus let out a boisterous laugh. “Romantically, he says! _Romantically_ involved, Dee!” He looked over his shoulder at Dee. “Were we, darling? Did you love me, those many years ago?”

Dee’s eyes softened. “I did.”

Remus laughed again and said, “Yes. Romantically. Intimately. Sexually. Dev—"

Thomas held up a hand, “I just wanted confirmation. And I’m Thomas, by the way.” He looked between the men excitably, his laugh shaking through him as he cuffed a hand through his hair. “Gosh, this is... this is so great! I have... I have so many questions. My colleagues said it wasn’t true, and it was just the language of the time period and... and yeah, this might be all in my head but—"

“No, no!” Remus snapped, his hands gesturing wildly as he said, “That is why we’re here, boy!”

“Thomas,” Dee corrected him. Remus ignored that and pulled out a chair. There he sat with his feet up on the fiberglass and his hands behind his head.

“Now. If you want the truth about me and my darling Mister Dee, you’ll hear it straight from me.” He took a breath and his voice dropped several octaves as he launched into a dramatic narration. “It all began on a dark, stormy night. The wind screamed in the tree branches and blood boiled beneath the earth. In my hands laid the bones of a stranger as I—"

Dee made a face. “We met in the springtime, beloved.”

Remus paused to glare at him, Thomas bit back a disbelieving laugh, and Remus tried again. “It was a warm spring evening! Roses blushing the color of sunset and the wine on my lips carried Dee’s scent as we—"

“You’re embellishing, Remus.”

Remus frowned at him and Dee only rolled his eyes. “A good husband wouldn’t interrupt me.”

Reaching for a chair to steady himself, Thomas sat down and pulled his phone from his pocket. There, he opened his notes and prepared his thumbs. “Hold on. So... the two of you are married? I thought Mister Dee married a woman named Elizabeth.”

“He did!” Remus said at the same moment Dee said, “I did.”

Remus chuckled and curled his mustache again. “ _I_ am Elizabeth. Clever, no? A nice dress and a bit of powder and no one knows who’s hiding under a bonnet.”

Thomas was reeling. “So... so you two married. In Victorian England. Two men. When it was illegal and—"

Dee waved a hand at that. “Yes, yes, the world frowned upon our activities, we’ve heard that enough.”

“It’s impressive!” Thomas said, earning a sideways look of intrigue from Dee. “I mean. All that work to keep your relationship under the radar? That takes serious effort.”

“It _does_ , doesn’t it?” Remus grinned, only to glance at Dee and stage-whisper: “What the devil is a ‘radar?’”

Tapping at his screen quickly, Thomas didn’t look up as he said, “Your brother, Roman.”

Remus stiffened where he sat. “What about my brother?”

“He was in a relationship too, wasn’t he?”

Remus relaxed and smiled. “He was! Logan was good for him, I think. A bit drab, but I suppose if that’s what rocks the cradle, I shouldn’t fuss.”

Thomas looked up. “Logan? Logan who?” Remus and Dee stared at him, and Thomas said, “All records of Roman’s life are... well. They all feel a little incomplete. He was discrete and never wrote down names on his intimate correspondence. Even if it’s clear that he was writing to a man, no one ever takes my studies of the letters seriously.”

Remus pursed his lips and glanced at Dee. “Sounds like our marriage. They’ve been ‘disproving’ us for years.”

Thomas nodded and held a hand to his temple. “Exactly! And… and even if I’m just dreaming this up, it’s nice to see that... that my subconscious is still on my side.”

“Like I said,” Remus drawled dramatically, “That’s why we’re here! It’s infuriating having all of my work for Dee written off as a friendly gesture or commission.”

Dee looked far away when he said, “Perhaps we kept the secret too well.”

“No,” Thomas sighed. “There’s enough to make a point. It’s just... historians don’t read it right. The one who _really_ kept the secret well was _Roman_.”

Remus chuckled fondly. “Secretive little minx, wasn’t he?”

“He did it for the good doctor’s reputation,” Dee said sternly, a firm hand on the back of Remus’s chair. “If their affair was revealed, it would have ruined him.”

Remus moaned dramatically. “Ah, the price the lower classes must pay!”

Thomas’s fingers hovered over his phone as he looked at Remus and Dee. “ _’The good doctor?’_ ” Thomas repeated interestedly. “So Logan was a doctor of some kind?”

“Only the best doctor of the city!” Remus announced with a wild grin. “He was a bit boring, but a damn good doctor.”

Thomas made a note of this and glanced up once more. “So... I mean. Not that I’m not curious about the two of you, but... how do a doctor and an artist meet and fall in love?”

With a content sigh, Remus took his legs down from the table and folded his hands calmly. “Thomas, Thomas... let me tell you a tale. A tale of love, loss, silver engravings and poetry readings... and the greatest of secrets held in the confines of a doctor’s bag.”

Thomas pushed a hand through his hair and let out a breath. “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

“Young man, you’ve only gotten him started,” Dee said coolly. “And if this might set the record straight, it would be best to have it all laid bare for the world.”

Remus nodded, an oddly melancholic look in his eyes as he said, “It’s been so long since they’ve been happy. Telling the story would... would bring them back. For a moment. Back to when they were...”

Dee pat Remus’ shoulder. “Time heals all wounds, dearest. Best charge on.”

With a flicker of green eyes, Remus smiled and caught Thomas’s eye. “Well said. Ready, boy?”

Thomas nodded. He started a new note. At the top, he wrote: _Time Heals_. Remus was waiting for him when he lifted his eyes and sat forward. “Tell me everything. From the beginning, please.”

Remus put a hand over Dee’s on his shoulder and began in a grand, narrative tone. “It was a cool spring morning when Dee told me about an invitation to a soirée...”


	2. Storm-swept Eyes

No one really knew who Miss Elizabeth Edwards was. Of course, that was by design. She was the wife of Mister Andréa (Dee) Duell. The Dee Family, full of politicians, bankers, and noblemen, were an extensive but elusive bunch. No one really knew who any of them were. The Matron of the clan, dubbed Lady Dee, was an elegant woman. Poised, sharp, and dangerous. Some said she was blackmailing the crown. Other rumors said she was the rightful heir to a fortune vaster than what they already owned. And some say that fortune was earned through the scamming of their fellow elite.

All these rumors are ludicrous. All these rumors are completely true.

Elias Dee, grandfather of our well-known Mister Dee, did not make his money in the banking industry. Nor did he make it through grand craftsmanship or trade. He earned it through the strategic and purposeful art of blackmail and extortion of his fellow bankers and businessmen. This became a tradition for the family. It would be difficult for them to lose money if the money simply kept flowing. There was no one in the elite upper-crust of London that could stop them; all of them were under the thumb of Elias Dee. Sadly, the patriarch of the family couldn’t stave off death (though there are whispers that he attempted to barter with death itself) and when he died, his sums of money were passed down to his daughter, our infamous, incomparable Lady Dee.

This brings us back to Miss Elizabeth, who no one but her husband has the pleasure of knowing intimately or otherwise. Lady Dee spoke fondly of her sons’ wife, often endorsing Elizabeth’s “soft spoken” nature and “elegant speech.” The daughter-in-law of Lady Dee was a mystery, and Mister Dee rarely opted to speak of her other than a fond, wistful “if only my lady wife were here to see this” at a grand party. She was frail, you see. Perpetually ill. A weak constitution kept her bound to the home and rarely able to go out, arm-in-arm with Mister Dee and wearing her favorite black-silk bonnet, ready to see the city.

Again, this was all by design. No one was meant to truly know Miss Elizabeth. No one was meant to get too close. No one was supposed to see her face. Because, dear reader, Miss Elizabeth wasn’t a woman at all. She was, in fact, the famed painter and poet, Remus Kingsley.

The two had met at a party thrown by an elitist in Earls Court who was draining his coffers in an attempt to show he wasn’t staving off bankruptcy. It had been an elegant evening for others... but boring for Remus. He enjoyed getting messy with his paints, inhaling the fumes and burning the midnight oil. Mister Dee disliked parties as well; they were an intricate web of societal lies and masks. That was, after all, how he made his fortune. This wasn’t a business deal, however... and he was left a little bitter and reserved.

Their eyes locked when they were caught in the same crowd. Remus glowed like wildfire and Mister Dee was the gas thrown on the flames. They left the party and crawled to Remus’ favorite pub, drinking and laughing and leaning into one another.

This continued for many nights. They enjoyed each other’s company tremendously. Remus painted for Mister Dee. He wrote him poetry and expansive, detailed love letters. Mister Dee showered Remus in gifts; a new, elegant four-poster bed, an imported rug, a silver washbowl and shaving kit... but weeks skirted around the issue.

Two men could not be married, no matter how many words of affirmation were whispered between expensive sheets in the dead of night. And thus, a plot was born.

If Remus could not marry the famed Mister Dee... then perhaps a lovely lady with the same height, weight, and curling brown hair _could_. Elizabeth was the result of that plot. Remus donned a dress and corset, shaved his mustache, and stepped into the role awaiting him.

The role of Miss Elizabeth Edwards.

To all outward eyes, Miss Elizabeth stepped off a train and simply appeared on the streets of London. Her jade eyes and delicately gloves hands snared the attention of Mister Dee when he helped her down onto the platform. They say she didn’t speak a word to him... didn’t even _thank_ him... but she smiled. And the cold, distant, dangerous Mister Dee fell in love instantly.

They were married within the week and Miss Elizabeth Edwards became Miss Dee. Historians mused that Dee’s recent marriage was the catalyst for his fall-out with Remus Kingsley. They no longer spent long nights together, drinking or otherwise. Gifts were rarely, if ever, exchanged. These historians are wrong. For Remus and Dee were still close. Still intimate. And living under the same roof.

“The LeStats want us to attend a soirée,” Dee said on a peaceful Saturday morning. He was sat at the dining table, going through the morning post while Remus stood in the den completely naked and staring at himself in a mirror.

After a long bit of staring, Remus turned back to his drawing pad on the easel and continued his charcoal drawing. “You _and_ I? Or just you?” He practically snarled when he said, “Snippy little rats don’t like when your _woman_ is weighing you down.”

Dee smiled and tucked the invitation back into its envelope. “Don’t fuss, love. It’s for the two of us.”

Remus groaned and pivoted to give him a dark look. “If it’s for both of us, you know it’ll be boring.” He waved the invitation away, like he could brush off the party without care. “Tell them Miss Dee is ill.”

Dee held a hand to his breast. “And go without you, my dear? I would be beside myself with loneliness.”

Rolling his eyes, Remus returned to his drawing. “I’ll come as myself. Bring a flare of fun to LeStats boring brandy-sipping gossip-nights.”

“You’re going to cause _trouble_.”

“Oh, darling... don’t I always?”

Mister Dee smiled; he loved this man. This wild, troublesome, abrasive man. Yes, he was a riot. Yes, he was a barely-contained forest-fire, and yes, if anyone knew what they were carrying on, it would ruin both their reputations.

But he loved him nonetheless. Perhaps it was the model of unconditional love (or perhaps it was just the opium that Remus liked to smoke) but Dee liked to imagine he was destined to meet eyes with Remus, all those months ago. Destined meet him, fall for him, and trick all of society with a fanciful and entertaining lie just to be with him.

“You’re staring at me!” Remus announced where he stood in front of the mirror. It was, after all, a lovely view. Remus was grinning at his reflection, looking at Dee’s besotted expression. With that smile, he put his hands behind his head and swayed a little where he stood. “Like what you see?”

Dee hummed and pursed his lips. Remus’s sketch pad was covered in charcoal, and even from the dining room, he could tell it wasn’t a nude drawing. It wasn’t even a drawing of Remus. “You aren’t drawing yourself, my dear. Why the mirror?” He continued sorting through the mornings’ post as he smiled. “And why no clothing?”

Remus laughed, loud and brazen. “I’m drawing _you_ , darling! And the best way to get anyone’s attention is to be naked.”

“Here, here.” Dee cheered in a monotone voice. Remus chuckled and started scratching at his drawing again.

“Just sit there, Dee. Look important. Don’t pout. Yes, just act natural. Not that natural. Lift your chin. Lovely.”

Dee sighed and scrawled his response to the LeStats invitation at the bottom of a blank note. “Next you’ll be asking me to stand on my chair and blow a trumpet.”

“Oh, only if you undo our shirt and let me paint a rustic tattoo on that shoulder of yours.”

This time, Dee laughed. “No, thank you.” He checked the invitation, and curiosity sparked. “Your brother, Roman...”

“What of him?”

“Will he be coming to the LeStats’ soirée?”

Remus finally paused, turning back to give Dee a long, interesting look. “He _has_ been holed up in his studio lately. Maybe he needs to go a little wild.”

Dee hummed. “I hear his landlord, Mister Moore, is coddling him. It’s no wonder he can’t get out of bed.”

Remus didn’t laugh. “You know he’s ill, Dee. Don’t be prickly towards me. It doesn’t suit your outline.”

Dee arched a single, elegant eyebrow. “Is that any different from how ‘being obtuse makes my jawline go hazy?’”

Remus nodded and returned to his drawing. “It _does…_ and for the party… let’s drag Roman out. He needs to breathe fresh air.”

Dee wrinkled his nose; the only ‘fresh air’ at that party would be found at the garden. LeStat was infamous for his cigar smoking. The entire parlor would _wreak_ before drinks were over. But that was no matter… people were sure to make room if the precious Kingsley Brothers, artists and literary masters, were to step into the room. They were a hot commodity to a gentleman like LeStat, and he would treat them well.

With a smile, Dee put Roman’s name onto the correspondence. “If you’re going to fetch your brother, at least put on some trousers.”

“And ruin your perfect view of me? Perish the thought.”

Dee looked at Remus through a fan of eyelashes. “You’re a fiend, my love.”

Remus preened and struck a pose that could be carved from marble. “A sexual fiend, indeed.” Then, he held out his arms and tossed his charcoal aside. “Come, let me ravish you!”

With a chuckle, Dee pulled at his cravat and set his pen aside. “Only if you promise to send for your brother this evening.”

“Let me have you now… and I promise,” Remus grinned as he curled the end of his mustache. “I’ll tend to him myself. Now come before I lose my patience.”

Dee stepped forward, his arms around Remus’s waist as Remus slung his arms over his shoulders. Loose but hanging on, just enough to be warm and heavy in his arms. Dee smiled and kneaded the small of Remus’s back. “Patience is a virtue.”

“So is chastity. I have time for neither or none.”

Again, Dee chuckled. “ _Sexual fiend,_ indeed. I feel like you’re dragging me into a duel.”

With a wicked smile, Remus dragged him down for a kiss with a growled, “ _Have at you!”_

The correspondence sat on the table, ready to be sealed and sent… but it would remain there for several hours. Mister Dee is, after all, a very busy man.

+++++

Thomas set his phone aside and gave Remus a hard look. If this was a dream, he was taking unnecessary liberties. Remus, however, seemed pleased with his narration and simply beamed at the attention. Thomas sighed, “I’m sorry… what does this have to do with your brother?”

Almost like he was affronted by the question, Remus held a hand to his chest. “Wha—you— _haven’t you been listening_?” Thomas stared at him, and Remus _tsked_ in disapproval. “The LeStats! The soirée! It’s how it all _began_ , Thomas!”

Thomas hummed, thoroughly unconvinced. “You gave me a lot of information on the Duell Family—” he paused, saw the look on Dee’s face, then corrected himself, “The _Dee_ Family. And a lot about their wealth. And a _lot_ about Elizabeth.”

“ _That’s me_ ,” Remus said, as if clarification was required. Thomas nodded indulgingly.

“Right, right… but what does the soirée have to do with Roman?”

After a dramatic huff, Remus pushed himself out of his chair and started to round the dining room in long, languid steps. “You have to understand, Thomas! Telling a story is like… skinning an animal.”

Thomas frowned. “I don’t think it is.”

“You have to start somewhere! Strip off that flesh piece by piece or, well, you _ruin_ the meat!”

Thomas frowned harder. “I _really_ don’t think that’s the best analogy you could use.”

Dee only chuckled as he took a set adjacent to Thomas. “Remus, you don’t know anything about skinning an animal.” Remus glanced at him, confused, and Dee said, “Skinning a person is different, darling.”

With a jolt, Thomas scooted as far as he could in his chair away from Mister Dee. _Skinning_ … a _person_? What did he know about that? Was he some sort of psychopath? Was he dreaming up the fact that Dee was a covert murderer, or was he in the house with the ghost of a crazy man? More than a bit discomforted, Thomas said, “We can uh… come back to that. But… you said something about a, uh… a party?”

“ _Yes_!” Remus stopped by one of the paintings that hung on the wall. It was a large one, several feet across and high… and Remus stared at it for a long while. It was a house of some kind. A large, clean house sat at the edge of tall grasses. Beyond it, the waves of the sea could be seen. “My brother painted this,” he said, almost like an afterthought. “I remember the day he finished. He was so pleased with himself.”

Thomas didn’t say anything. He stood from his chair, walked over to the painting, and looked at the delicate brush strokes. Paint around the edges was cracking with time and effort. But the picture was still clear. And Remus’ eyes were… not sad. More regretful than anything. Thomas looked back to the painting.

“Do you miss him?”

Remus laughed, but there wasn’t humor in the sound. “Every day.”

“Why…” Thomas shaped the question in his mouth carefully, trying to remain as unjudgmental as possible. “Why isn’t he… _here_? I mean. The two of you are here. So why…”

Remus shrugged. “Perhaps because he didn’t die here. Perhaps because he doesn’t want to see me. Perhaps because he was a better man and Saint Peter let him through.” There was a long, considering pause, and Remus turned away and started to pace again. “That’s not the issue, though. The _issue_ is these… these… _history-studiers_ are getting everything all wrong!”

“Historians,” Thomas corrected calmly.

At the table, Dee folded his hands and hummed. “You forget, darling, that history did not revolve around us. At the most, we were a minor noble family.”

“Should that matter?” Remus asked incredulously. “This isn’t just _our_ issue. This is my brothers’ life! His works! His poetry and paintings _mean_ something and _they’re doing it wrong!”_

“Alright, alright!” Thomas held up his hands and gestured toward the stairs. “Let me get my laptop. It’ll be easier to keep track of what you tell me. We’ll get it right. Put it all on record.”

“Marvelous,” Dee said, sounding anything but thrilled. He stood though, allowing Remus to take his arm as they followed Thomas back to his office. Though Thomas could still hear him, Dee leaned into Remus and murmured, “The interloper is walking us through our house. Strange, isn’t it?”

“And he can finally see us,” Remus said at a normal volume, quite literally talking behind Thomas’ back as he rolled his eyes. “Wonder of wonders. Do you think it’s something we did?”

“I doubt it,” Dee sighed. “He’s been here two weeks without seeing us. Perhaps it’s desperation that drove him to finally notice us.”

Thomas stepped into his office, paused, and turned back to look at the couple. “You… the two of you have been here the whole time?”

“Yes!” Remus grinned. “I’ve been screaming at you since the first day you arrived! Wasn’t I, darling?” He didn’t give Dee a chance to respond. “ _Put that down!_ And _Keep away from that!_ Were the things I would shout most of the time. Dee knocked over your lamp and you didn’t notice. He was _very_ disappointed.”

Dee grimaced. “I wasn’t disappointed.”

Remus waved that away and sat down on Thomas’ bed. There, he watched Thomas carefully as he sat, opened his laptop, and synced his notes from his phone. Once Thomas had his fingers poised over the keyboard, he looked to Remus. He was met with something akin to excited deviousness. It was probably the dream warping his perception. Maybe this dream would become a nightmare. Either way, Thomas had no choice but to stick with it until the end.

“Now. Where was I?” Remus asked calmly, a finger on his chin as he stared at the far wall. Thomas cracked his knuckles, rolled back his shoulders, and took a breath.

“You said it all started with a party.”

“Ah yes!” Remus said with a snap of his fingers. “Enter: Logan Stein, stage left!”

+++++

We meet Logan Stein on the corner of a street. He is not a beggar, dear reader, nor is he street performer. He is, in fact, a doctor. A fine doctor at that. He’d been raised in the city’s lowest places, cold and hungry and scared for most of his life. He fought for each inch of ground he gained, scraping his way up from the dirt and onto the smooth concrete of the shining streets. His practice had become successful in recent years, though he wasn’t sure why.

(It was the noblewomen, honestly. They thought he was so serious and handsome, they couldn’t help but fake a bit of a swoon whenever they ‘needed’ to see him.)

Regardless of that, Logan was a man of medicine and practicing in London City, comfortable in his quarters and warm throughout winter. It was more than he could have hoped for in his childhood. In reality, he’d done all of this for his mother, hoping that if he could earn himself a respectable job, he could provide for her. She encouraged him through those years of schooling. She grew weak, and tired… and Logan went to her. He tried to help her. But not even Logan could cure typhoid. His mother passed shortly after Logan graduated with his doctorate.

This isn’t the part of the story where we delve into the intricacies of Logan’s despair and losses. And no, this isn’t the part where we mourn the loss of the mother and move on. No, losses are losses and they cannot be discussed once. They are routinely surfaced; a tide and wave that comes back to us when we least expect them to hit us. We stumble, falling and crashing back into murky water as we struggle to find our footing. No, Logan was not a devastated man… but he was a _lonely_ man.

And that was about to change.

Logan had just stepped over the threshold of his latest clients’ home and back onto the street when he was unceremoniously grabbed. The hands that grabbed him where shaking, desperate and fervent, as Logan was gripped and held at arms-length. The man was not tall, but he wasn’t short. His curling hair was combed back nicely and his glasses where delicate and round. Logan gave him an odd look, clearly surprised by the unwarranted arrest of his arm, but the man didn’t let go.

“Doctor!” The stranger asked, his blue eyes glittering frightfully behind his glasses. Logan blinked, thoroughly perturbed, as the stranger stared at him. “You _are_ a doctor, aren’t you?”

Logan nodded slowly. Was this man deranged? He looked well-to-do with his fine coat and trousers... but the mad glint in his eye set Logan off-kilter. He was weary as he said, “Yes, I am. Doctor Stein, in fact.”

“Doctor. Oh, Doctor, please, I need your help.”

Without another word, the man took his wrist and began dragging him down the street. Logan hardly had a chance to grab his gladstone bag full of supplies without tripping. He kept pace with the man though, narrowly dodging a carriage when he was pulled across the street.

“It’s my tenant, you see,” the stranger said frantically. “He’s very frail and... his brother took him to a party the other night and he wasn’t well when he came home but… well, when he gets on one of his ‘creative whimsies’ he just won’t stop! No matter what I say, no matter how sick he is...”

“Your tenant?” Logan asked as he was pulled up the front stoop of an apartment. The stranger opened the door for him, ushering him inside. Logan was hit by a distinct smell. Something like chemicals. A thick odor. Paint? Logan glance back at the stranger, seeing the way he wrung his hands restlessly. “What symptoms does he have?”

“Oh... symptoms? I don’t...”

“Is he feverish?”

The man shrugged desperately. “I... probably? He’s so flushed, I—"

“Does he have chills? Indigestion? Are his eyes glassy?”

The man fumbled for words, “I... Doctor, I’m sorry I don’t—"

Logan held up a hand. “Please. Mister...?”

“Moore!” The stranger said as he thrust his hand out to shake. Logan took it, shook it hard, and dropped it as he went on to say, “Patton Moore. I own the apartment.”

“Right,” Logan said with a sigh. “Mr. Moore, it seems you don’t even know if this man actually needs a doctor.”

“He does!” Patton assured him with frantic, fluttery hands. “Oh, he does! He’s sick. Very sick.”

Logan took a step back toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me—"

“Dr. Stein, please, I’m not being facetious.” Patton waited until Logan turned to him, holding his hands in front of himself tightly as he said, “I’ve known Roman — ah, my tenant — for many years. He’s always been sickly, you see. I know when something wrong. And I _know_ when he’s too far gone.”

Logan grimaced, dipped into his pocket, and pulled out his pocket watch. It was half past three. He was officially free until someone else called on him. He tucked the watch away, indicating for Patton to lead the way.

“Please, show me your tenant. I can’t guarantee I can do anything, but I’ll at least consult his condition.”

Patton nearly looked ready to melt with relief as he smiled and said, “Oh, thank you. Thank you, doctor.” He led the way up the stairs to a single door, knocked, and hesitantly said, “Roman? Roman, I’ve brought a doctor. He wants to speak with you.”

Inside, a voice called out: “I’m fine! I just need to paint! Inspirations’ goddess has commanded it!” A pause, and then the voice cried, “And write! I need to write! Patton, go buy parchment!”

Without heeding this request, Patton opened the door and Logan caught his breath as the scent of paint hit him with a newfound force. The room was filled with different canvases, some of them blank and many of them colored. Paints were strewn across the floor, and a mussed sheet covered some of the wooden floorboards from the liquid assault. From Logan’s observation, it was only partially effective. Among it all stood a man in a dressing gown and little else. His trousers where horribly wrinkled and his shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his stomach. Even from the doorway, Logan could see the sheen of sweat on his brow.

When he turned to see Logan and Patton enter, the tenant (Roman, it would seem) looked completely baffled.

“I don’t need a doctor.” He was shaking. He swayed on his feet. Logan almost reached out to steady him. Almost.

Patton nodded indulgently as he indicated to Roman. “Dr. Stein, this is my tenant, Mister Roman Kingsley.” Then he gestured to Logan, “Roman, this is Dr. Stein.”

Roman visibly stumbled as he tried to take a step forward. Logan caught him, dropping his bag to the floor as Roman held onto him with arms that trembled with effort. When Roman raised his head, Logan was met with an expression he’d seen before. He’d seen it on high-class women when he cared for him. He’d seen it on the ladies he helped cross the street. He’d seen it on many a woman, but never a man.

He saw blind, raw attraction in the blur of Roman’s pupils and the round ‘ _Oh’_ of his lips.

“Those eyes,” Roman whispered. Logan blinked with unabashed surprise.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Those eyes!” Roman repeated as he reached up one trembling hand and touched Logan’s cheek. Logan had half a mind to pull away. But he didn’t. He didn’t because... because...? Logan was transfixed. Welded in place as Roman murmured, “A turbulent sea after a storm. Oh, I have to paint these eyes. I have to, I have to...”

Romans eyes rolled back in his head as he became dead weight in Logan’s arms. When he sagged, Logan threw a haphazard arm around him, shouting a feeble, “Mr. Kingsley!” as they went down. Dragged down by the weight of him, Logan hit the floor at an odd angle, half-covered by an unconscious artist. Above him, Patton sighed tiredly.

“I told you,” he said woefully. “I _told_ you he needed a doctor.”

“Yes, yes, obviously you were _right_ …” Logan grunted where he was held to the floor by Roman’s weight. With a bit of struggling, Patton came and helped pull Roman up and off the floor. With Roman’s arms slung over their shoulders, they managed to take him to his bed. “Crack the windows, if you would. Fresh air will help.”

Patton didn’t miss a beat as he flew to the windows and threw them open. He went, but he didn’t go _quietly._ “It’s that party, I swear!” Logan checked for a pulse, and Patton went on. “That soirée at the LeStats’… I should’ve gone. If I’d gone with him, he might not have gotten so ill. He was coughing so much when he came home. So much, I tell you… I was afraid he’d get blood on his handkerchief again.”

Logan twitched and leaned forward to press his ear to Roman’s chest, listening to his breathing. It was relatively clear. Then, he leaned back and gave Patton a hard look. “ _Again?”_

Without pause, Patton hummed and tied back the thin, translucent curtains. Such a rich-man’s luxury. “Roman’s always been sickly, you see. Something about his lungs. Delicate? Frail? Something like that.”

Logan fished in his bag for a cloth. There, he dabbed the sweat from Roman’s brow. “And he wasn’t ill before this… _gathering_ yesterday evening?”

“Oh. Well. He’d been complaining of a headache, but… well, he’s almost always got a headache.” Logan turned to see Patton looking at the canvas that Roman had been painting. It was a smattering of colors. Vague suggestions of sunset-stained clouds and foggy winter beaches. Logan looked away, but Patton remained. “I think it’s the paints, honestly. It’s probably what Remus thought, too.”

Logan frowned; Remus. Remus and Roman. He had heard those names before… but _where_? Perhaps from another patient. Maybe from the paper. Or maybe even on the street.

“You may have heard of them!” Patton said brightly. “Remus and Roman Kingsley? They’re quite the renaissance men, let me tell you. Painters and poets, the two of them.”

Logan’s expression crumbled. _That_ was it. They were _artists_ ; many of his wealthier patients (some women, some men) liked to boast to him about their recently collected pieces. A portrait done by Remus, a landscape done by Roman… it was all frivolous spending to Logan. He’d grown up with barren walls and cold floors. Rather than worrying about exclusive paintings or poetry readings, he and his mother worried about being able to purchase _food_ for the day.

“How is he?” Patton asked anxiously, snapping Logan out of his thoughts. He blinked, looked down, and found Roman still quiet and unconscious before him. 

“It seems like exhaustion more than anything. The headache could be from the strong paint fumes.” Patton seemed to relax at that, like this was truly relieving news. Logan frowned; there was nothing outwardly wrong with Roman Kingsley. He simply looked limp with his fever, like a drooping flower in need of watering. Passing his cloth over Roman’s sweat-dampened skin once more, Logan was careful as he pushed Roman’s thick brown hair from his brow. “Make sure he rests, Mr. Moore. And have him drink cool water. No smoking.”

Patton fidgeted. “Oh, Roman doesn't smoke. It’s strange… another doctor said that cigars might help soothe his coughing. But Roman told me--”

“It makes it worse,” Roman whispered softly. Logan turned back to him, seeing those hazy yes looking at him through a fan of eyelashes. After a moment, Roman smiled. “So it wasn’t the fever.”

Logan shifted. “Excuse me?”

“Your eyes,” Roman said, as if this explained everything. “They’re still that same blue. Still so troubled, so deep and complex… has anyone ever told you this? That you have beautiful eyes?”

Logan frowned. “No. Never.”

“They should. The world is foolish for not telling you.”

“I’ll be taking my leave.” Logan stood from the bed, taking up his bag and tucking his rag into it before clipping it shut. “Bed rest and clean air. Those are my solutions.”

_“Bed rest?”_ Roman repeated, more alarmed than anything else. He stared at Logan with wide, disbelieving eyes. He looked _betrayed_. Which didn’t make sense to Logan; when one is sick, one should _rest_. Why was this man being obtuse? Roman moved to push back the blankets, “The fever will go away when I’m finished with my painting!”

“That’s preposterous!” Logan snapped, earning a look from Roman. Crossing his arms over his chest, Logan gave the painter a hard look. “I find it odd that a grown man would have such childish views on illness.”

Roman baulked at that, lying back with more effort as he grumbled, “It’s not _illness_ , it’s just an inconvenience. I’ve managed to paint and write my way out of a fever before.” That statement would have been _much_ more convincing if Roman’s gaze weren’t hazy and unfocused. Logan raised an eyebrow, and Roman pressed, “I’m not even coughing! If I were _really_ sick, I’d be coughing.”

From the corner, Patton spoke up, “Just because you aren’t coughing doesn't mean you aren’t unwell, Roman.”

There was a meaningful pause, and Roman went to push back the blankets again. “This is ridiculous. I don’t need to _rest._ I need to _paint_.”

This was far out of Logan’s comfort-zone. Most patients took their diagnosis and did as they were told. This man seemed determined to run himself into the ground… and then _keep going_. Without thought, Logan stepped forward, put a hand on Roman’s shoulder, and pushed him back down against the pillows. Roman didn’t try to get back up; he simply stared up at Logan, stuck and captivated as he settled back down and relaxed against his pillow.

Taking his hand back, Logan pulled at his collar as he said, “You should _rest_ , Mr. Kinglsey.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Until the fever is gone,” Logan reiterated. Roman smiled, and it seemed genuine.

“ _Yes_ , doctor.”

And that was that. Logan took up his bag and headed for the door. “I’ll make sure to send a note for my services,” he said, keenly aware of how Roman’s eyes followed him to the doorway. Patton was happy to follow him, closing the door to Roman’s fortress of paint-fumes. As he descended the stairs, Logan glanced at the landlord over his shoulder. “Does he ignore instructions from doctors often?”

Patton looked a little bashful as he said, “Well… actually, _yes_. It’s rare for him to actually say ‘yes’ to any doctor. You must be special!”

Logan frowned and reached for the front door. “I doubt it, Mr. Moore. Your tenant is simply eccentric.”

Patton laughed, “That, too!” There was a pause, and before Logan could escape, Patton reached out to touch his elbow. “Thank you, Dr. Stein. Really. I was worried he’d tip himself out the window trying to get fresh air.”

Arching an eyebrow, Logan hesitated in the open door. “Does he lean out the window _often_?”

“Often enough,” Patton sighed, “He coops himself up there, painting for _hours_ , and then he gets so dizzy… I’m sure the fever didn’t help.”

“I’m sure it didn’t.” Logan stepped outside. “Please expect a bill for my visit.”

Patton lingered in the doorway, smiling at Logan as he stepped outside. “Thank you again, doctor. It’s a relief to have him resting for once.”

Logan tipped his hat to Mr. Moore -- the poor man probably had to deal with Mr. Kingsley’s antics on a daily basis -- and made his way back up the street. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach; a discomforting anxiety. Something that told him that this _wasn’t_ the last he’d seen of Roman Kingsley. No, not by a long-shot. And that _look_ Roman had given him… he’d never seen a man look at him like that. Why did it intrigue him? Why did it startle him? He wasn’t quite sure. But he’d be back. He knew that at the very least.

Still lingering in the doorway, Patton took a deep shuddery breath and let it out. It had been a long time since a doctor had been able to coax Roman into staying in bed. It would do him good, surely... More than just inhaling paint fumes and leaning out the window when he got dizzy. Patton took another breath… and sighed. Dr. Stein. He’d have to remember that name. Perhaps he would have to call him again.

Before Patton had a chance to close the door, he spotted a familiar figure making its way up the pavement. Tall, thin, and dressed in a worn black coat. Patton smiled and met the man with a handshake.

“Virgil! Good of you to come on such short notice.” 

Virgil took off his hat as he stood on the front stoop. He looked a bit nervous, his eyes flickering behind Patton as he turned his hat over in his hands. “Your tenant…”

Patton laughed at that. “Oh, Roman has been put to sleep for the afternoon. Don’t fret. Now… would you care to come in? I _do_ have something I would like engraved.”

Virgil smiled, but it was a little uneasy. He remained on the front step. “To be blunt, Mr. Moore… most of my clients bring their items and heirlooms to my shop.” There was a distinct pause, and Virgil sputtered, “Not that I don’t enjoy the invitation! I just… in light of our social standings, I--”

“Social standing?” Patton asked, his voice a little fluttery. With a bit of hand-wringing, Patton dropped his gaze to the floor and murmured, “Well, Mr. Lent… in perfect honesty, I couldn’t care less for our social standings. I simply wanted to see you.”

“Oh.” Virgil paused, blinked, and his eyes went wide. “ _Oh_?”

Patton looked at the door frame, then the sky, then the street… and finally at Virgil. There was a tightness in his chest and warmth in his cheeks. “If you’d like to come inside…?”

With his hat held to his chest, Virgil licked his lips and ducked to avoid hitting his head on the door frame. “I’d be honored, Mr. Moore.”

+++++ 

Sitting back, Thomas rubbed his eyes. Outside his window, the sky was starting to grow lighter. Was his dream going into overtime? Was it really morning? Or was he imagining it all in his head? Either way, he was starting to feel heavy and tired from the story-telling -- fatigue in a dream. Who knew it was possible?

“Hang on, hang on…” Thomas sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “What does Mr. Moore have to do with anything?”

Remus looked at him innocently -- a juxtaposition if Thomas had ever seen one. “Hmm?”

“You keep bringing up the landlord. And now this… engraver.” Thomas paused and gave him a long stare before saying, “Not that I’m trying to out-logic a dream, but… how do you know about all of these conversations if you weren’t _there?”_

With a hand held to his breast, Remus let out a dramatic gasp. “Thomas, my _dear_ boy! Where is your suspension of disbelief? Where is your enjoyment of the story?”

“I’m just saying,” Thomas murmured. “It doesn’t make sense that you know every bit of these private conversations.”

Dee laughed at the disgruntled face Remus made in response. A little prickly, Remus grumbled, “My brother shared nearly _all_ of his intimate conversations with me.”

“He was unconscious for half of this story!” Thomas gestured to what he wrote. “Really, it seems like you’re narrating _Logan’s_ point of view!”

Pursing his lips, Remus sat back and crossed his legs. “Like love, the afterlife is a fickle mistress. We see so much more of the world than the living will _ever_ see.. A shame we’re stuck in this house. I’d love to terrorize London again.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes and glanced at the clock; it was nearly four a.m. “That doesn’t explain how you know all of these things. And _what_ does Mr. Moore have to do with any of it?”

“Mr. Moore plays his part well!” Remus said, a little vexed. “And it’s not all about the upper-crust, you know. Even engravers deserve love, Thomas.”

“I didn’t say that they didn’t.”

“Now!” Remus clapped his hands together. “Shall we continue? Whether or not you acknowledge it, Mr. Moore is directly involved with this story.”

After a brief yawn, Thomas turned back to his laptop and nodded. “All right, okay… sure. Tell me all about your plot-hole knowledge.”

Dee made a pinched face. “What on earth is a ‘plot-hole?’”

“Nothing important, I’m sure,” Remus steepled his fingers under his chin and smiled. “Now. Mr. Moore had just sent away the good Dr. Stein…”

+++++

Before progress is made, it must be understood what kind of man Mr. Patton Moore was. He was an open individual, born into money with little to do with it. He enjoyed arts and music but was hardly proficient in them. He was not a scholar, but he enjoyed reading. Mr. Moore was, in plain words, a _simple_ individual. No complexities or intricacies. A nice man of upstanding morals and a warm (some may say _bleeding)_ heart.

The only thing that set Mr. Moore apart was his connections to the world of the famed and admired. His friendship with Roman -- and by extension, his brother Remus -- earned him invitations to grand parties. His family earned money in the textiles business; important and exporting soft and luxurious fabrics. But Patton wasn’t a businessman. He never had been. So he took a portion of his family-given earnings and bought an apartment. There, he made his own living by renting out a room to Roman and Remus Kingsley when their parents passed away. It was a simple kind of living. Close-quarters are not the norm for those used to living in posh luxury… but Patton _enjoyed_ it. Cramped spaces filled with precious belongings and memories were his idealistic setting. Yes, Patton Moore had all manner of important, memory-filled _things_ in his apartment.

And what better to mark something as important than with an engraving?

That is where Virgil Lent comes into the story. In truth, he had been in Patton Moore’s story for nearly a month. A silver-engraver was a wealthy trade; one that was filled with requests from the upper-class. Patton had asked for a locket for his mother to be engraved with her birthday; Virgil engraved it. Patton asked for a pocket watch to be engraved with his family name; Virgil did so without question. But the requests had become more and more trivial and needless. A pair of initials on silverware, an inscription on a desk clock, or meaningless shapes on a ring that Patton had bought earlier that week.

Though Patton was a simple man, he was coming up with more and more _complex_ reasons for Virgil to come to his home, sit down, and talk a while. And the reason for those things was hardly complex itself: Patton enjoyed Virgil’s company. And if he could spend a bit of the money his family gave him and talk to Virgil at the same time, it was well worth the expense.

Patton led Virgil into the main sitting room of his apartment, gesturing to the sofa while he poured two cups of tea. Virgil, a tall and lanky man, folded himself down and carefully put his hat in his lap. Patton had always noticed when he did this; it made him look much smaller. Like he was afraid to take up space. Patton wanted to make him feel _safe_. Like he could stretch out and smile and laugh freely; but those moments were rare and fleeting, and Virgil was always anxious around wealthy clients. So Patton tried to keep his distance.

“Sugar?” He asked, earning a startled look from Virgil. Patton gestured to the teacups. “For your tea.”

“Oh! Three, please.” Virgil stayed folded where he was like a thin, ornamental doll perched at the edge of the sofa cushions as Patton handed him a cup. When Patton sat back with his own cup, Virgil waited until he took his first sip… and then tried the tea himself. After a contented sigh, Virgil sat back a bit, unfolding a little where he had tucked himself. “Thank you.”

Patton smiled and crossed his legs languidly. “Busy day in the engraving business?”

“Busy day in the irritating business,” Virgil grumbled, glanced at Patton, then quickly said, “Not that _you_ are--”

Patton laughed. “I certainly hope not me!”

With another sigh, Virgil shifted a bit where he sat. “Just saying: if everyone in London town decided _not_ to get things engraved for a day, I’d be fine.”

“That bad, is it?”

“Bad enough, ‘suppose.” Virgil swirled his tea in his cup for a moment, like the aroma would reveal something, then perched the cup on his knee. “All these _women_ and their broaches. The ladies think they have to engrave the back of their broaches so they aren’t _stolen_. These… these _women_. You know women?”

Patton blinked slowly. “I know of them.”

Virgil laughed at that, a quick, startled sound before he said, “Sorry. Sorry, I just… and _lord_ some of the boys that walk through the doors think I can engrave anything. And you know that they -- the young ones? Young boys? -- they all think that it’s the best thing you can do for a lady! Special lockets and rings and the like.”

Patton smiled. “They’re _young_ , Virgil. And in _love_.”

With an unimpressed look, Virgil shifted his long, long legs and gave Patton a thin-lipped frown. “They’re _young_. And _stupid._ More than half the things I engrave for them are going to end up in some girls’ drawer, unused and ignored because a different man flaunted a fancier ring.”

Narrowing his eyes, Patton took a long drink of tea. “I can’t tell if you’re upset for the boys… or for your hard work going to waste.”

“Both!” Virgil exclaimed, more than a little displeased with the notion. For a moment, he paused and glanced at the stairs. When Patton followed his gaze, Virgil spoke bashfully into his teacup. “Forgot that your tenant is upstairs.”

“Oh, he was fast asleep last I saw him,” Patton assured him. He thought for a moment, stirring his tea a bit before saying, “It was so _curious_. I’ve never seen him _listen_ to a doctor before. If it were anyone else, he’d be off and painting within the first moment the doctor left the room.” Virgil _tsked_ and Patton smiled. “But he stayed in bed. He watched him go! And when the doctor made it down the stairs, Roman had turned over and _closed his eyes_.”

“Curious,” Virgil echoed flatly.

“Very curious! Maybe this doctor will be good for him.” Patton sat quietly for a moment, watching the dull glint in Virgil’s eye from across the room. After a few seconds of staring, Patton cracked a smile. “You’re still thinking of the boys and their lockets, aren’t you?”

“It’s ridiculous!” Virgil said with a wave of his arm. “The effort that these young men go through to show their affections… what happens to the boys who don’t have the money to buy girls’ pretty things? What happens to the ones hardly able to scrape together enough money for a good suit?”

Patton winced and looked down at his fine teacups. “They… well, I suppose they’d have to woo a different girl.”

“But what if they’re in love?” Virgil said desperately. Patton looked up at him, and Virgil looked away. That almost stung. “Is that what our society is? Spend money, hand over fist, and _maybe_ she’ll look at you?”

Patton looked at Virgil. Virgil didn’t look back. “Maybe,” he murmured, “Maybe it is.”

Silence, heavy and meaningful, settled between them. Virgil looked uniquely displeased with the way the conversation had gone, and if Patton were to look carefully, he might say that Virgil looked _depressed_. That would be enough to make anyone feel guilty. But they sat quietly, only the _tik tok tik_ of the grandfather clock accompanying them as they sat. After a long bit of silence, Virgil placed his teacup and saucer on the table.

“You had something you wanted engraved?”

Patton hesitated, his mouth opening to say something, _anything_ other than what he wanted engraved… but he couldn’t. He couldn’t ask Virgil to stay if he didn’t want to. He couldn’t make Virgil sit with him and twiddle his thumbs through the hours. No, Virgil was a working man, and that needed to be respected. So he set his cup aside, went to his desk, and retrieved a simple pocket watch. When he handed it to Virgil, he said, “Just this, please.”

Virgil stood to meet him, taking the watch carefully as he looked at the old, well-shined metal of the back. “Just this? Just one pocket watch?” He sounded amused when he said, “I thought you’d have another set of silverware for me again.”

Patton smiled thinly. “No. Just something for my father’s grave. A watch he left for me.”

Virgil looked at him oddly. “His grave? If he left it to you, wouldn’t you rather keep it?”

“I’d like you to engrave something on the back,” Patton told him, as if Virgil had never spoken. “Just one thing.”

Virgil pulled a small, folded paper from his breast pocket and a pencil to accompany it. Once he had it readied, he said, “A line of scripture? Or a name?”

“One word,” Patton murmured, his hands clasped in front of himself calmly. Virgil glanced up at him, and Patton smiled. “Just one word: _Liar._ ”

Virgil didn’t write this down immediately. In fact, he looked very uncomfortable with his pencil hovering over the paper. “Ju--wh… liar? As in… lying. Being a liar. That’s what you want?” Patton nodded, and Virgil stressed, “For your father’s _grave_?”

“Oh, it’s a long story,” Patton said softly as he went back to his armchair leaned his hip against the arm. “I don’t expect it to make sense to you. Not now, anyway.”

After a moment, Virgil tucked the paper back into his pocket. “I don’t suppose you’d just _… tell me_ the story.”

“You’re a busy man.” Patton smiled and waved the story away. “I can tell you another day.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Virgil said, clearly intrigued (if not troubled) by this information. When the sound of a voice floated down the stairs calling Patton’s name, Virgil took up his hat and tucked Patton’s old watch into his pocket. “Sounds like your tenant is calling you.”

Patton sighed and walked Virgil to the door, his hand lingering on the knob as he said, “That poor man… I wonder what he’ll do if I ever decide to sell this old place.”

“He’ll have to get a real nanny,” Virgil said as he put on his hat and stepped outside. “That, or a wife that can handle him.”

Roman’s voice called through the house again, and Patton sighed. “I’m not sure a woman that patient exists.”

Virgil stepped back with a soft laugh. “Good day, Mr. Moore.”

“I’m sorry our visit was so short,” Patton said quickly, his hands wringing as he glanced back into the apartment. Roman could wait another moment. He looked to Virgil. “I’d hoped we could talk more.”

“And bore you to death with my engraving nonsense?” Virgil offered sarcastically. Patton smiled.

“I don’t think it’s nonsense. It sounds like art.”

Virgil licked his lips, clearly at a loss for words… and tipped his hat. “Good day, Mr. Moore,” he said again.

Patton made his way back into the house. It was quiet without Virgil, which was an unwelcome change. And it was quiet without Roman’s incessant mutterings and clattering’s from the second floor. But, Roman had called for him. That gave Patton _some_ use, he supposed. So he climbed the stairs, went to Roman’s bedside, and sat with him.

Roman peered up at him with hazy, tired eyes. “Who was that man?”

“My visitor?” Patton cocked his head to the side. “Or the doctor?”

“The doctor,” Roman said sleepily. Whatever Logan had done, it had worked wonders. Perhaps that’s all Roman needed: a stern hand. And Logan was stern, that was certain. Roman reached over to take Patton’s hand. Patton let him, brushing his thumb over Roman’s smooth knuckles. Hands that hadn’t seen a hard-days’ work before in their life. Patton smiled, and Roman sighed. “I don’t recall a name.”

“Stein,” Patton said after a moment. “His name is Dr. Stein. A good man, no?”

“Yes,” Roman smiled dreamily. “He was a _very_ good man.”

Patton rolled his eyes. “Oh, now you’re just saying that because he was _fetching_ , aren’t you?”

“Did you see his eyes?” Roman asked, completely ignoring Patton’s question. That was fine. The stars in his eyes were answer enough. “He looked like a… an early work by the masters. Oh, DaVinci painted those eyes, I’m sure.”

Patton patted Roman’s hand softly and nodded indulgently. “Of course he did.”

“Statue of _David_ , that’s what that doctor is.”

Patton winced. “Not sure I’d go that far, but he _was_ a handsome face.”

“And so _serious_ ,” Roman said suddenly, his eyes open wide and locked on Patton. “He was so _serious_.”

Patton shrugged. “Some men are. It seemed to affect you; you slept! For a short while.”

“Carved from marble,” Roman muttered, seemingly in his own world again. A breeze wafted in through the windows, carrying the curtains with it. Patton reached for the bedstead, dipping a cloth in the cool water basin and drawing it across Roman’s forehead. He sighed, but he didn’t seem at peace. He looked… not upset. Perhaps _concerned_ is the right word. “He was carved from marble, Patton.”

Patton nodded, though he wasn’t sure what this meant. “Yes.”

_“Carved from marble.”_

“I heard you, Roman.”

“Marble breaks easily,” he said after a moment. “It’s easy to misshape.” Patton wasn’t sure what this was supposed to mean. He hummed, dabbing at the sweat on Roman’s temple as he said, “That doctor… he looked like marble. Pale and beautiful. Emotion carved carefully… but it. It isn’t real. Broken somewhere. Crumbling. Crumbling…”

“Your poetry is getting away from you,” Patton said softly. “Why don’t you sleep, hm? You’ll feel better.”

“I won’t,” Roman grumbled, though he closed his eyes. “I never feel better. Something always hurts.”

“Sleep,” Patton said again. He set the cloth on the bedstead, pushed Roman’s hair from his eyes, and made for the door. Roman watched him go from the shelter of his blankets, a fever in his cheeks and a heavy thought in his head. Patton could do nothing for either, so he took his leave.

“Patton?”

Patton paused half-way through the door. “Yes.”

“Stein, you said. Dr. Stein?”

Softening a bit, Patton felt something akin to relief flutter through his chest. He had worried about Roman, his oldest and closest friend, all alone and cooped up in the attic. When Remus had moved out it had left Roman more than a little melancholy. Now where he was brooding under the blankets, his eyes sparkled with starlight and curiosity. Patton smiled.

“That’s right. Dr. Stein.”

“Good man.”

Patton laughed politely and stepped out of the room. There, he left Roman Kingsley. And there, Roman Kingsley rolled over in bed, thought of those turbulent, stormy eyes… and slept.


	3. A Good Man

Thomas, as a coffee-drinker, didn’t drink regular, hot black coffee. Call him young or call him childish, he enjoyed the overly-sweet, ice-cold and sugary-sips of syrup that were labeled “mochas” or “Frappuccino’s.” On this particular morning, he did not have the luxury of waltzing out to his closest valued cafe so he could drink some coffee and feel awake and human; he was sitting and listening to the rantings of a long-dead artist and his griping, frustrated husband.

“The _outrage!”_ Remus shouted, “The _scandal!”_

“It’s not nearly that upsetting,” Dee shot back, clearly irritated as he watched the brightening horizon through Thomas’ office window. After staring at the purples that had begun to seep into orange, his gaze snapped back to Remus. “Honestly, darling, you made do with a paper and pen, isn’t that enough?”

Remus had been marching around Thomas’ office for an hour, his story completely derail and focus shot as he waved an arm at Thomas’ laptop. “A _computer_ , he calls it. And this is fine! But _now_ what does he speak of?” No one spoke because they knew Remus wouldn’t give them the chance. “He speaks of a _typewriter!_ Gah, these— these— oh! The nerve of humanity!” He leaned against the back of Thomas’ chair (Thomas had given up trying to bring him back to the topic at hand forty minutes ago) and gave Thomas’ dead-gleam eyes a hard look. “If I’d have a typewriter in my day, Thomas, you know what I’ve had done?”

Thomas scrubbed a hand over his face and said on command, “You would’ve created more poetry, stories that would make the city scream, and a masterpiece—"

“That would have been remembered throughout that ages!” Remus shouted, still fired up. At his desk, Thomas slumped forward and sighed. Remus didn’t stop there. He was on a roll, marching around the room with authority that no one else was able to recognize. “It’s ridiculous,” he said with a decisive chop of his hand. “That this machine was not invented in my lifetime.”

Dee gave him a long, hard look. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“Well _you,_ ” Remus snarled in an accent that was quickly coming apart at the seams, “Are a southern _pansy_!”

Dee gave him a slow, unimpressed blink. “Charming.”

“Death to you, then!” Remus shouted louder than before. Thomas sat up, giving him an alarmed look while Remus glared at his husband. “Lo, let the seas boil and earth upturn at your presence!”

“Cursing me, my dear?” Dee inspected his fingernails. “How quaint.”

Remus continued to spit and Thomas was ninety-nine percent sure he didn’t mean a single word of it. “Murderous curr! Vile wretch! Pompous altruist—”

Dee’s head lifted sharply. “How _dare_ you. Call me anything you like, my love. Murderous? Absolutely. Vile? In time, yes. But an _altruist_?” He put a hand to his chest in offense. “You _wound_ me.”

Remus wrung his hands and groaned. “This is still _frustrating!_ If I’d had a typewriter, I could have written so much _more!_ Imagine the bloody, sinuous, _amorous_ things I could’ve written with a _typewriter!”_

“Yes, you could have made more. But what you _did_ write made quite the impression,” Dee said soothingly, his eyes sliding over to the window once more. The sky was growing lighter, the sun hadn’t broken the horizon yet. He looked to Remus. “Find solace in that, hmm?”

Remus shimmied his shoulders and pouted. “If only that was _enough_ , darling.”

Again, Dee looked to the window. “It’ll have to be enough. For the night, I suppose.”

Thomas pivoted to look out the window. The sun had cracked over the horizon, stretching out golden rays of sun like the star had risen from a long nap and needed to stretch before properly hanging in the sky. Thomas slouched a little where he sat; he’d been up _all night_ with these ghosts. Or, at the very least, it _felt_ like he’d been up all night. If it was a dream or hallucination, it was certifiably exhausting.

When he turned back around, ready to _attempt_ bringing Remus back to the story at hand (Roman, Logan, Patton and Virgil… who were they and what was their role in the whole story?) Thomas stopped and rubbed his eyes. He lowered his hands. Remus and Dee were gone. Not like they’d gotten up and exited the room respectfully and quietly; no, Thomas would’ve heard the old floor groan and wheeze under them. There were just… _gone_.

A little tense, Thomas turned back to his laptop, saved the rambling bit of information that Remus had fed him, and went to bed. It was late ( _early)_. If he woke up and Remus reappeared, then great. Wonderful. They could continue their storytelling. Until then, he was going to sleep.

+++++

Mister Dee was an upper-class businessman. Business required skill and skill required diligence; he was well-stocked in both. His family owned banks, those banks owned creditors, and those creditors owed him _large_ sums of money. And Mister Dee always got his money. He had ways of obtaining it. Unsavory ways. Ways that would make the fine woman of high-society gasp and faint. Ways that would make the mustaches of noblemen curl in disdain. Yes, Mister Dee was an upper-class businessman.

But he was also the king of underground-punishment to his debtors.

Remus knew this; of course he knew this. You could only slink around the Dee Estate for so long before you heard the muffled screams in the basement. He knew this but was not _concerned_ with it. Dee was harsh and snide, but he was not a violent lover. Nor was he abusive. If Dee was hurting someone, it was for a good reason.

The people that owed Dee money were not “good” people. But who's to say where the line of “good” and “bad” are located? The particulars of morality were not Dee’s concern; the _money_ was.

So if he managed to whip a man who abused his wife? Well done, Mister Dee. If he broke the fingers of a man who stole his younger brothers’ inheritance? A capital choice. Men in high-class society disgusted Mister Dee, but he was also _one of them_ , and they financed his life. In the most unsavory, punishable ways.

Now, let’s take a step back. This is merely information to take stock of Mister Dee. Is he a cruel man? Yes… and no. But that’s not the objective of this story. The objective is to lay the scene, set the stage, and ensnare you.

Dee wiped his hands on a relatively clean handkerchief. The satin fabric, formerly a crisp white, came back stained a ruby-red. He tucked the square into his coat pocket as he walked with Remus up the stairs. Remus _liked_ to watch these sessions; inspiration for biblical-type torture paintings, he said. Or some such nonsense. Dee didn't mind. It was one more thing they did together, in a manner of speaking. Either way, Dee offered his arm and Remus took it, leaning into him as they walked the long halls of the Dee Estate.

“How’s your brother?” Dee asked, almost on impulse. It was a sore subject; Remus had always felt sorry for his brothers’ poor health. Remus had hardly ever been sick a day of his life. Was it guilt? Maybe. Dee was simply trying to be polite. “He was… in _quite_ the state after the soirée.”

Remus grimaced. “I blame it on LeStat. Fat old idiot. Huffing and puffing that cigar like he’s some kind of…” he waved his hand uselessly. “ _Dragon.”_

Dee chuckled. “I don’t think it’s the cigar that did him in, dearest.”

“It was the cold night air!” Remus cried dramatically, a hand held to his head as he leaned against Dee with more energy. Dee was used to this by now and continued walking. _“Oh, such sweet pain is the chill of the winter winds!”_

“Yes, he went out in the garden at night.”

_“To escape the breath of a dragon, hot and fiery, thick like sulfur and oozing with impropriety!”_

“The only one that breeds impropriety is _you_ , my dear.”

Remus pinched Dee’s arm. “I’m _trying_ to _monologue_ , darling.” There was a pause, and Remus growled, “I should’ve spat in his brandy.”

Dee nodded and opened the door for Remus, shooing him out into his own gardens. It was overcast as usual, but the world was alight when a springtime sun. When they stepped out into greening rosebushes and flowerbeds, Remus grinned madly. His memory was impeccable (a story for another day).

“I was asking about your brothers’ _health_ ,” Dee emphasized calmly. The garden walls were high here. No one would see them walking together, slow and intimate. Remus stopped and Dee stopped with him. He was given an odd look. One that either meant Remus wanted to paint him… or devour him. It didn’t matter which. Dee smiled coolly. “We haven’t heard from him in several days.”

Then, with uncharacteristically gentle hands, Remus pulled Dee down for a kiss. Soft and unlike himself. “You’re a kind man,” he whispered against Dee’s lips, almost like he wasn’t sure what he was saying. “To worry about him.”

Dee raised an eyebrow. “Feeling neglected, my dear?”

“Only a bit.” Then, without warning, Remus stepped away, leaving Dee’s arms open and waiting for more. He wanted to be chased. He liked the excitement of pursuit. Dee huffed with a smile; that was fine. He’d chase him for his entire life if Remus would like to be caught. So he followed Remus through the garden, lax and calm as Remus undid his cravat and tossed it to the cobblestone. “Mr. Moore says he’s been resting.”

Dee made a face. _“Resting?”_ he repeated, hearing Remus laugh. “This _is_ Roman we’re talking about, isn’t it? Roman doesn’t _rest_.”

Remus shed his fine vest and threw it into the bushes. Still, he didn’t stop his walking away and didn’t look at Dee. “You know an awful lot about my brother, Dee. Should I be worried?”

Dee stopped, put his hands in his pockets, and leaned back calmly. “Should you be?”

Remus stopped, too. He pivoted to look at Dee. He was unbuttoning his shirt with a pout. “ _You_ are a wicked man.”

“No more wicked than you,” Dee said smoothly. Remus narrowed his eyes and Dee raised his chin. “You know I only have eyes for you, Remus. Don’t play dim; you’re too smart for that.”

Pursing his lips for a moment, Remus shrugged and kicked the cobblestone. “Apparently a doctor has visited him.”

“A shocking turn of events.”

Remus laughed, loud and abrasive, and Dee smiled back. “Yes, yes… but this doctor was _different_.”

Dee raised an eyebrow and stooped to pick up Remus’ cravat. “Different from the _dozens_ of other doctors that have visited him before? The whole of Edinburgh will converge upon that apartment seeking answers.”

Remus shrugged again. _“He who rarely bowed to the whims of a doctor…”_ he paused, lost interest in waxing poetic, and started to walk through the garden again. Dee picked up his vest from the bushes as Remus said, “He listened to this one. Rather odd.”

Dee slung the vest over his arm and followed Remus slowly, so slowly. “Your brother dislikes listening to doctors.”

Remus stopped, and Dee did not. He came close, sliding his hands over Remus’s sides and down to his hips. Remus didn’t giggle like he usually did. He didn’t even squirm. “He doesn’t _like_ doctors.” A pause. And then, “I can’t blame him.”

With careful hands, Dee gathered up the fabric of Remus’ shirt and held on. Not removing it… just holding. Grounding, in some way. “Because of your parents?” Remus didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Dee kissed the nape of his neck. “I feel like I’ve sparked a _mood_ this afternoon.”

“Not you,” Remus said thoughtfully as he curled his mustache. He was looking off past the garden wall, eyeing something in the distance that had no shape or shadow. “Not you.”

Dee bristled where he stood. He wasn’t angry… but more uncomfortable than anything. Remus was always so _playful_. It was strange to see him melancholy. Stranger when he couldn’t _fix_ it. But melancholy wasn’t always something that needed to be fixed; sometimes it only had to be endured. So he held firm, a solid wall of support behind Remus as he glared at the horizon.

“I’m hungry,” Remus said suddenly. Dee blinked.

“It isn’t time for supper.”

Remus turned around in his arms, tangled his fingers in Dee’s hair and pulled him close. “I’m _hungry_.”

Remus’s vest and cravat fell to the cobblestone. Neither man picked them up.

+++++

As Thomas slept, the keyboard clicked on its own. It was slow going, though. Very slow. Keyboards were not used in the early nineteenth century, and plenty of slow _tik… tak… tik_ … filled the room for hours. These soft sounds didn’t wake Thomas. No, he was exhausted and would sleep well into the afternoon. Still, the keyboard clicked.

Thomas slept, and the story wore on.

+++++

Logan knew that he’d return to Roman Kingsley’s apartment. It wasn’t _fate_ and nor was it _destiny_. It was simply a matter-of-fact thing. When patients took a liking to him (some more than others) he would be called back. Sometimes as a follow-up, sometimes just to have him look at a bump or bruise. For Roman, it was the former.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Kingsley?” He asked, polite but formal. He was sitting at Roman’s bedside, his hand on Roman’s wrist and feeling a pulse. It was steady, despite the excited glimmer in Roman’s eyes.

“Fine, Doctor. Just fine, now that you’re here.”

Logan took his hands away and produced his stethoscope from his bag. It wasn’t necessary for Roman to unbutton his shirt for Logan to hear his lungs, but he did so anyway. He breathed deep several times… and none of those instances produced any coughing. His heart was beating harder than it had to be. Logan knew why, but he wouldn’t dare say anything aloud.

“Your lungs sound clear, Mr. Kingsley,” Logan leaned back and reached for his bag. There, he brought it into his lap and ignored the way Roman stared at him. “And your fever is gone. You’re in perfect health.”

Roman scoffed. _“Perfect health_ … my good doctor, you have no idea who you’re speaking to. I am perpetually ill.”

Logan squirmed. “How unfortunate for you.”

This didn’t seem to bother Roman and he simply shrugged as he buttoned his shirt and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ll live, Dr. Stein. I always do.”

Standing, Logan allowed Roman to get up and wander over to his large canvas. Immediately, Roman picked up his paints and his brush and started to prep his palette. Logan watched him, a little perturbed by Roman’s dismissal. He didn’t excuse Logan. Didn’t thank him for his services. Didn’t even bid him a good afternoon. He was already painting.

A little prickly, Logan shifted his bag to his other hand. “Rest seems to have done you well, Mr. Kingsley. You’re back to your habits.”

“For now, good man. For now.” Roman’s smile was coy as he dabbed at the canvas delicately. Logan shifted his footing. Roman didn’t say anything more. The only one ill-at-ease was Logan. It was irritating.

“Well.” Logan said. Roman hummed. _“Well_.” Logan said again. Roman paused and looked back at him, the picture of a wealthy man in perfect disarray. His shirt was wrinkled, and his trousers weren’t pressed. His hair was unkempt and windswept (it seems he left the windows open to breathe fresh air while he painted now.) He looked at Logan and Logan met his eye sternly.

“Is there something else you need, Dr. Stein?”

Logan twitched. “No,” he admitted. “Nothing.”

Why was he irritated by this? Was it because Roman had been so infatuated with him on their first meeting? Was it the blunt dismissal? Roman was done with him. Roman was no longer _amused_ by him. He should take his leave, go back to his office, and angrily smoke his pipe until the next house call. 

_Note_ : Logan Stein was not a smoker. Not really. Only when he was irritated and unwilling to admit it.

“Oh,” Roman said, almost a little sad with the way he said it. Logan’s brow furrowed as Roman fiddled with his paint brush. He was glancing at his painting, as if it would somehow continue the conversation for him. Logan spared it a glance. It was… a painting. That was certain. Roman sighed. “Well. Good afternoon, Doctor.”

Logan turned and made for the door, but it burst open before he could reach the handle. It swung open so fast and violently, it slammed against the back wall and made the windows rattle. In the doorway stood a man… a man that held a _terrible_ likeness to Roman. If not for the mustache and the shock of white hair at the part of his hair.

“Roman!” He cried melodramatically as he threw himself across the room. Roman met him with open arms, cradling his odd doppelganger with an amused sort of detachment. The man went on, “Oh, my dear, _dear_ brother, I heard you were on your death-bed!”

Roman laughed out loud. “Hardly!”

The man clung to him nonetheless, ignoring whatever Roman had said. “Barely hanging onto your life by a _thread!”_

Roman glanced at Logan. “I’m so sorry.”

Falling to his knees, the man wept without tears and shouted, “Dear _god!_ Why would you take my one and only twin brother from this world? He was a good soul!” He paused, then mumbled, “A tad boring, but good nonetheless.”

“Oi!” Roman snapped indignantly.

The tenseness in Logan’s frame relaxed. So that was it. _This_ was Remus Kingsley. He was… colorful, in a word. Loud, in another. Logan found himself preferring Roman’s calmer — if not flowery and poetic — company. This was a level of theatric that Logan hadn’t seen since his days as a child playing pretend in the streets with his friends. (Or rather, friend. Just one. A boy named Virgil.) And now, in his adulthood, he had no idea how to handle the situation. Should he leave? Should he say something? Remus seemed deranged. Maybe he was.

As if on cue, Remus glanced at Roman’s canvas, stood, and planted his hands on his hips. “Well. You’ve _changed_ things since I was here.”

Roman turned and excitedly gestured to the canvas. “It was autumn! Do you remember? The smell of the sea and the foam on the waves…”

Remus curled his mustache and hummed. The brothers were _ignoring_ Logan. Perhaps he _should_ leave.  
“I remember… mothers’ dress,” Remus said, almost like an afterthought. “I remember. The way she would gather her skirts in her lap… and sit with us in the dry grass.”

Roman looked at his brother, and there was no excitement or joy. Just a smile that seemed lost on his face. “And her singing?”

“I remember that, too.”

“Father playing the violin?”

“After dinner, yes.”

Logan was slowly backing away toward the door. This seemed like an intimate moment. An intimate moment he had _no business_ overhearing. As he reached for the handle, he was startled to see Remus Kingsley turn back and look at him.

“ _Aha!”_ He announced, like he’d discovered something incredible. “ _You_ must be the doctor I’ve heard so much about.”

Logan leaned back and away from Remus’s scrutiny. Had he become infamous? He hadn’t done anything strange or outlandish. He would _remember_ if he had. Roman was distracted, brushing at the back of his brother’s coat with a pinched expression.

“Remus, there are _leaves_ on the back of your coat. And dirt. Why are there leaves and dirt on the back of your coat?”

Remus glanced at him. “I fell over in the garden.”

Roman arched an eyebrow. “You fell solely on your back.”

“It was a _wonderful_ fall.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Logan said, eager to extricate himself from the situation. He was no Master of Communication and he wasn't about to become one. He would sooner go back to his work than be caught up in _whatever_ the Kingsley brothers were covertly discussing. “Good day, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Hold a moment!” Remus shouted, making Logan flinch. He gave Remus a withering stare in return, but Remus only grinned. Where he stood by the canvas, Remus crossed his arms over his chest and raised his chin. “I hear you coerced my brother into _resting_.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. “Coerced is a strong word, Mr. Kingsley.”

Remus shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t care _what_ you did. It healed him! He’s back on his feet and _painting_.” He gave Roman a wink. “Before you know it, he’ll be back to composing and writing his bad poetry.”

Logan watched as Roman baulked and set his brush and palette aside. “ _Bad_ poetry? _I’m_ the one who’s asked to do readings in the afternoon. _Your_ poetry frightens women.”

Remus made a pinched face as he smoothed his mustache. “Those women don’t know good poetry,” he said before he turned back to Logan. “Now, tell me. Where did you study?”

Logan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“ _Study_. Where did you _study_. Quickly, now.”

Logan didn’t think. “Edinburgh.”

“Under whom?”

“Doctor Lyle T. Cornell.”

Remus nodded, as if this meant something to him. “And your marks? Good, I hope.”

Logan adjusted his glasses. “I graduated at the top of my class, Mr. Kinglsey.”

Out of nowhere, Roman piped up and said, “Are you wearing _Andréa’s_ coat?”

Remus glowered at his brother. “Details, little brother. _Details._ ”

“And is there a reason for your polite interrogation?” Logan asked as crisply as he could. The brothers looked at him, two sets of frighteningly intense jade eyes locked on him as he squared his shoulders. “I am a fine doctor, Mr. Kingsley. There should be no doubts about that.”

“Yes,” Remus admitted, “You’re _fine_ , but are you _the best?_ I want only the _best_ for my little brother.”

Roman looked equal parts flattered and irritated. “You were born hardly ten minutes before me. And Dr. Stein is a _wonderful_ doctor.”

Remus held a hand to his breast. “Can’t I worry about my baby brother?”

Roman glanced at his coat again. “Exactly how worried are you?”

“If I may be excused?” Logan asked a little sharper than he meant to. Finally, Roman turned to look at him, seemingly sad to see him trying to escape.

“You’ve frightened him away, Remus.” Roman gave his brothers’ shoulder a shove and Remus didn’t seem fazed. Even so, Roman stepped forward to shake Logan’s hand. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Stein. I appreciate your time.”

Logan shook his hand. Why was he disappointed to be leaving? Why was he so bothered that Remus had swept into the room like a storm on the wind? Roman had thanked him. Wasn’t that what he wanted? A proper, gentlemanly goodbye? Or… maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe he’d wanted something else. Some other conversation from Roman. He just wasn’t sure what it was he _wanted_.

“Thank you, Mr. Kinglsey,” Logan nodded dumbly. Roman smiled, and Logan retracted his hand. “A pleasant afternoon to you both.”

Then, he snuck himself out of the room and down the stairs. He felt Roman watching him. He felt Remus staring, too. But it wasn’t as direct. It wasn’t as _intense_. He took his coat down from the rack just in time for Mr. Moore to come through the front door looking a bit tired. His shoulders sagged a bit, even when he tried to straighten himself up at the sight of Logan.

“Oh!” Patton smiled when he met Logan’s eye. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Mr. Kingsley called on me,” Logan said, as if he needed an explanation. He didn’t. Why was he rushing to explain himself? Patton nodded with a calm smile, and Logan said, “I’m glad to say his fever has passed and he’s perfectly healthy. For the moment, at least.”

“For the moment,” Patton repeated coolly. He hung up his coat and they exchanged places in the doorway. Patton paused when he saw the other coat on the rack. “Oh my. Remus is here?”

Logan tried not to grimace. With the way Patton looked at him — full of pity — it hadn’t worked. “He arrived a moment ago.” 

With his fingertips against his lips, Patton murmured, “I should make tea…”

Logan made a face. “Do you not have a maid? I’m sure one would suit you.”

Patton paused, glanced at him, then fluttered his eyelashes. “You think so? I’ve always been happy brewing my own tea.”

“As have I,” Logan said, “But, given your… status, I assumed—”

Patton laughed. “Oh, you sound just like _him_ …”

“Pardon?”

With a long, thoughtful look, Patton smiled softly. “I _was_ born wealthy, Dr. Stein, but that doesn’t change the fact that I have two hands capable of preparing my own tea.” Patton leaned in the doorway with that same, jolly smile, and Logan stepped out onto the street. A pleasant “Good afternoon!” was called after him, but Logan didn’t bother to turn back and return the sentiment.

On the street, Logan saw Virgil Lent pulling on a pair of well-worn gloves. Really, it was difficult to miss Virgil in a crowd; he was too _tall_ to miss. And perhaps it was their life-long friendship that made Virgil susceptible to finding Logan. All he had to do was turn his head, smile, and Logan knew he’d been spotted.

“Virgil,” he greeted quietly. “Well met.”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “I won’t lie, doctor… you look like Satan reached up from the pits of hell and gave you a good bleeding.”

“Very flattering,” Logan deadpanned. Virgil shrugged, and Logan gestured for him to follow him up the street. “I don’t often see you on this side of town. What takes you out of your shop?”

Virgil gave him a dark look. “A client, that’s who.”

Logan gave him a sidelong look. “You don’t seem pleased.”

Virgil flinched. “I am! I’m… pleased. With the client. I’m pleased.”

Logan adjusted his glasses. “Are you convincing me, or yourself?”

“Both,” Virgil grumbled. He coughed a bit into his handkerchief, then fidgeted with his gloves. “Think you can look at my hands again? They’re bothering me.”

“It’s all the chemicals you use,” Logan said as he led the way to his office. After a few long minutes of walking, Logan glanced up at Virgil. “I didn’t know you made house calls.”

“I don’t.”

Logan made a face. “But… for this client…?”

“This client is different.”

Now Logan actually looked at Virgil. His friend remained stoic. After growing up in poverty together, learning their respective trades, and becoming well-provided gentlemen, Logan was frustrated to note that Virgil was _still_ unreadable. “Does this client happen to have a pretty face?”

Virgil flinched. Logan didn’t miss it. “They’re… handsome.”

Logan hummed. Virgil had never shown interest in romance — and, to be fair, neither had Logan. But he assumed it was in favor of his work. And now a handsome young woman had caught his eye. It was… almost sad. He would miss his friend. Courtships went fast, and before he knew it, Virgil would be married and having children and bouncing a little girl on his knee with a smile… and Logan would still be alone. Logan would still be a doctor of the city, leading a cold, clinical life. And Virgil would _have_ someone. He wouldn’t need Logan’s starch-stiff company.

“Don’t make that face!” Virgil said as he cuffed Logan’s shoulder. Logan gave him a hard look, and Virgil gave him a wry smile. “I’m not running off into the hills. A man can appreciate a lovely face. It doesn’t mean he’s going to marry it.”

Inwardly, (guiltily) Logan breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it was a show of how isolated he truly was; losing a friend like Virgil would mean the collapse of his very, _very_ small social circles. Of course, there were patients that were eager for his company. But none of them garnered his interest. Well… all but one. But Roman Kinglsey was an odd case. An outlier that should not and _would not_ be counted.

Calmly, Logan let Virgil into his office. Before he did, Logan saw a young mother pull her child away from Virgil’s willowy frame. He was _very_ tall. He couldn’t blame her for being surprised. Her son, however, was immensely impressed by Virgil’s height.

“Mama! Look at him! He can reach the sky!” The mother tried to hide the boy behind her skirts. Logan could see the twitch of Virgil’s expression; one of self-conscious anxiety. But the boy slipped away from her to look up at Virgil again. “Can you touch the clouds?” He asked, wide-eyed and innocent.

Virgil smiled softly. “I can. Eat your greens and you’ll be as tall as me, one day.”

While the boy beamed at the prospect of being a giant, Virgil ducked into the clinic and Logan followed. Once there, Virgil took his seat at his favorite chair, set his hat aside, and sighed heavily. Logan gave him an odd look as he rolled up his sleeves.

“Now I’m _actually_ concerned about you. Now, this client… they aren’t running you ragged, are they?”

“No,” Virgil admitted softly. “But it’s strange. I’m used to coming to their home to take their items for engraving—”

“You _go to their home_?”

“Contain your amazement, doctor.” Virgil gave him a hard look and sighed. “But I… think I made a mistake.”

Logan motioned for Virgil to take off his gloves. Virgil did. His fingertips were stained silver. His palms were greying and purple in areas, tough as sun-dried leather and stiff to boot. Logan sighed and went to retrieve a bowl of clean water. There, he placed Virgil’s hands and let them soak a bit. He’d get the soap later. He gave Virgil a hard look. “You made a mistake going to their home?”

Virgil gave him a sidelong look. “No. _Mentioning_ something to them.”

Logan nodded gravely. “Your dislike for the caste system.”

“Can you let a man _speak_ before you come to your conclusions?”

“I could,” Logan said stiffly. “But I’m usually right.”

“Well, this time you’re _not_. So _shut up._ ” Logan rolled his eyes and Virgil chuckled before he went on. “See… usually, they're very… put-together. That kind of… _rich_ relaxed. You know what I mean?”

Logan’s thoughts flickered to Roman Kingsley in repose. “Yes, I do.”

“This time he looked… _exhausted_. Not sure why.”

Logan paused. “He?”

Virgil avoided his eye. “She. Sorry. Slip of the tongue.”

Logan nodded calmly. “It happens… so. This lady of yours. She seemed uneasy?”

“Not _uneasy_ ,” Virgil said slowly, “More… _worn_ than anything. And she—” he coughed hard for a while. Long, laborious coughs that left him rattled where he sat. Logan winced in sympathy, and Virgil took a shuddering breath. “Sorry. What was I saying?”

Logan took Virgil’s hands and started scrubbing them with soap. Some of the silver washed away with hard enough scrubbing… but most of it was ingrained deep under the skin. The chemicals where burning through the surface and deep under it. Logan wouldn’t wipe that away. Still, he was gentle as he turned Virgil’s hands over and carefully washed each finger. “Your client seems worn.”

Virgil hummed. “You know… how a rich man will waste his day away with brandy and cigarettes? That’s what I always thought this client would do… but now I’m wondering if I was wrong.”

Logan gave him an odd look. “Women aren’t allowed to do much aside from cooking and caring for children, Virgil.”

“Reading!” Virgil piped up easily. “They could _read.”_

“They could.” Logan smiled down at Virgil’s hands. “They’d be marvelous teachers, I’d suspect.”

Virgil was soft as he said, “Your mother taught us to read.”

“I know, Virgil.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, only the slosh of water in the basin accompanying them as Logan washed away the chemicals and silver on Virgil’s hands. Then, when he was done, he took Virgil’s hands in a warm, clean cloth and patted them dry. Virgil’s eyes were far away, looking at something that wasn’t in the clinic. Logan mourned those eyes; day-dreaming and lovesick.

“You really care for this woman, don’t you?” He asked, a bit unsure of the words. Virgil didn’t look at him.

“This client… has much more to them than I understand,” Virgil admitted after a long moment. “I want to know more.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Curiosity is one thing, my friend. _Love_ is another.”

Virgil baulked and leaned back in his chair. “Whoever said I was in love?” Logan said nothing. Virgil gave him a hard stare. “You analyze too much, Logan. You used to be _fun_.”

“I used to be a child,” Logan smiled thinly. “And look where it brought me.”

“To a building that you own with patients that can’t keep their hands off of you?” Virgil grinned when Logan gave him an unimpressed look. “Don’t blame me, Logan. You are _very_ handsome. Blame your mother for your pretty face.”

Again, Logan rolled his eyes and looked at Virgil’s hands. They were pinker than before. More natural. But the silver was still there, under the skin. After years of using chemicals and shaving bits of silver off of keepsakes, it was impossible to avoid the burns and the discoloration.

“You really should wear gloves.”

“I can’t be as accurate.”

“No, but you’ll keep your _fingers_ for the rest of your natural life.”

Virgil laughed and it melted down into a series of coughs that each sounded more painful than the last. Logan narrowed his eyes; could that be blamed on the engraving as well? No, Virgil didn’t inhale the chemicals. Perhaps it was simply a persistent cough.

Quietly, Logan went to his cabinet and took down a jar of Soothing Syrup. He set it on the table next to Virgil. “For the cough,” He explained. Virgil eyed the bottle and sighed.

“That syrup makes me tired.”

“Take it at the end of the night.”

Virgil narrowed his eyes. “What if I want to stay up late?”

Logan glared at him. “Then suffer in silence.”

“ _Damn!_ ” Virgil leaned back dramatically. “You’re _mean._ Aren’t you supposed to help people?”

“I have!” Logan laughed fondly as he reached for a roll of bandages. “I could wrap your hands if you like?”

Virgil growled and slid off of his chair, backing for the door. He was already pulling on his old, worn gloves, covering up the discoloration in his hands. “No. Don’t need those. I need my hands to work.”

Logan sighed; there was no use fighting Virgil. He was a perfectionist, just like Logan. Maybe they learned that flaw together. Maybe it was something his mother taught them. Either way, Virgil was ready to slip out the door and leave Logan alone in his office. And Logan had to let him. Virgil had his _own_ job to do. Grabbing the bottle of syrup, Logan tucked it into Virgil’s palm.

Virgil was careful with the bottle, like Logan had handed him a precious heirloom. It was stowed safely in the pocket of his coat. After he had his hat under his arm, Virgil ducked out the door and called over his shoulder, “Give Mother my love!”

Logan made sure to smother a smile; he always did. His response was automatic. Virgil tipped his hat and Logan replied: “She’s better off without it.”

And, like he did every time before, Virgil only laughed.

+++++

Thomas watched the keyboard on his laptop. Each key was pressed hesitantly… but with purpose. He wasn’t sure how long Remus or Dee had been typing, but it was obvious that they didn’t want to stop. There were decades of frustration and fact that needed to be documented. Even if no one else believed him, Thomas understood the desire. The need to be recognized. A life’s work was riding on it, and Roman had been brushed to the side of history for far too long.

Slowly, Thomas sat up. The _click, click, click_ of the keyboard stopped. He blinked slowly. When his eyes opened, Dee was sitting at his desk chair, eyeing him warily.

“Good evening, Thomas.”

“Hey,” Thomas pushed back the blankets and looked around. The house was still sleepy and the air was quiet. “Where’s Remus?”

Dee glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, isn’t he here? I swore he was threatening to throttle you just a moment ago.”

“That’s comforting. Ghosts are threatening me while I sleep.”

Dee chuckled and crossed his legs languidly. “Tell me something, Thomas.” Thomas looked at him, and Dee looked like a serpent coiled to strike. His finger tapped his knee slowly. A purposeful rhythm. “Why do you study our lives?”

Thomas blinked. “Why?”

“Yes. I know that I was part of a powerful family… but that was a long time ago. I no longer reign London from the shadows.” He gave Thomas a hard look. “What caught your attention, Thomas? What made you curious?”

There was a hint of hesitation in Thomas, but he didn’t let that stop him. “I don’t think I can put a finger on it _exactly._ I’m not sure there was an ‘aha’ moment… but I know it was when I was in college. Wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. And I saw these letters in a Lit class—" Dee gave him an odd look and Thomas smiled. “A _Literature_ class. They were letters from Remus. And… I don’t know. I thought they were… interesting.”

Chuckling fondly, Dee scratched at the large, jagged scar on the left side of his face. It didn’t look deep. But it looked like it might’ve been painful. Thomas wanted to know how he got it… but it would be rude to ask.

“Remus is a… dark type of person, to put it plainly.” Dee smiled, and he looked hazy and lovesick. “He finds beauty in the gruesome and grim.”

Thomas smiled and looked at his hands in his lap. “I think… that’s what might’ve hooked me. And I looked into him. And then I learned about Roman, and _his_ poetry… they were both so talented.”

Dee softened. “They were.”

“Can I ask _you_ something?”

And the softness disappeared. A stone wall slammed down over Dee’s eyes and he was cool and distant once more, only the curl of his lips gave away his displeasure. “Of course,” he cooed smoothly; a sweet sort of lie. “You can ask me anything.”

Gingerly, Thomas resigned himself to avoiding heavier subjects. Instead he said, “If the two of you want your story — and Roman’s — to be corrected then why… why are you telling me about Mr. Moore? I don’t remember reading about him. And Virgil Lent? I’ve never even heard of him.”

Dee was languid as he said, “They play a role, Thomas. Without Patton, we would not have Logan. Without Virgil, we would not have Patton.”

Thomas sank where he sat. “It’s like a weird sort of… nesting doll of causation.”

Dee cocked his head to the side. “I’d say correlation, rather than causation. To know why Patton felt what he felt, we need to know Virgil. To know Virgil, we must know Logan.”

Thomas cuffed a hand through his hair. “That’s one hell of a web to weave.”

Dee smiled wryly. “Ah, but a tangled web is better than one in perfect order. Room to slip through the cracks, so to speak.”

That went over Thomas’s head. “I’m not _that_ good at poetry.”

“Nor am I a poet,” sighed Dee. He stood and gestured to Thomas’s desk chair. “Please. Sit. This machine is nearly beyond my comprehension… and I am entirely out of patience.”

Smiling a bit, Thomas sat, pulled up his chair, and watched Dee sit on his bed. After a bit of skimming — had they written all of this while he was asleep? — Thomas nodded and set his hands on the keys. “Okay. Where did we leave off?”

Dee folded his hands and smiled thinly. “Why, with Mr. Moore, of course.”

+++++

Patton was an unhurried man. Unhurried in the sense that he didn’t need much of anything to do while his family pulled in money month after month. Unhurried didn’t mean he wasn’t _burdened_.

Patton was _guilty_ ; his family business had been kind to him… and unkind to others. Lies had been handed out to the workers in lieu of money… if they were kept long enough to demand payment. Some were accused of “poor work” and turned away… and the Moore family prospered. Things had changed in recent years, ever since Patton got his hands on the reigns of their enterprise. Workers were kept and paid. His family name was slowly but surely being pulled from the mud… and Patton’s morality had been the reason for it.

But that wasn’t enough. The process was slow-going (unhurried, you may say) and Patton wanted… no, he _needed_ to make a difference. To make something in the world a little better. And he’d do whatever he could to make it so.

That included financing a local orphanage and spending time there whenever he could spare the afternoon. Patton found that he _liked_ spending time with children. They were bright and warm and excited about life. When they were well-fed and kept in a house that didn’t leak or grow too cold, they were happier. Money worked wonders for children in need. 

On that specific afternoon, Patton had just finished spending time with a little girl. She was younger than most; quiet and reserved. She seemed afraid. Too uneasy to reach out and spend time with the other children. Patton sat with her (she needed space, he could tell) and spoke to her quietly. He asked her favorite color and complimented her red, red hair. After watching the other children play for a while, the little girl scooted close, pulled on his sleeve… and asked why he had windows in front of his eyes.

Once he explained the concept of _glasses_ , the little girl, Clara, insisted she had to try them. It resulted in Clara giving them back quickly. She pat his hand and told him to “feel better soon.” And Patton adored her. She hadn’t left him alone for nearly three hours. She hid behind him. Hung on his sleeve. Asked to be picked up and held. And he did all of these things. Of course he did. He’d do anything for those big, innocent eyes. But he was also curious.

“When did she arrive?” He asked the matron of the house, Amelia. Amelia gave him a wary, tired look.

“Last night. Showed up on the step. Probably ran off. No one came looking, so…” Amelia shrugged. Apparently, that was all she had to say.

Patton glanced back at where Clara was curled in the corner of the room. The other children were playing, running around the house with vigor… and Clara stayed small. Tucked away. It reminded Patton of Virgil making himself smaller, just so no one would stop and stare. Patton sighed.

“She told me she’s six years old… do you think that’s true?”

Amelia shrugged and swept the floor. “Probably.”

“Do you have any idea who her parents were?”

“No, sir.” Amelia didn’t even look at him. Was she like this with everyone? Or just her employer? Hopefully she wasn’t this distant with the children. After a moment, Amelia turned to him and held out a hand. “One more child means one more mouth to feed.”

Patton handed her a few extra notes, just for her trouble… but wasn’t comforted. Maybe he should look into a different matron. Someone who paid attention to the children. Until then, he had to accept Amelia’s distant, cold eyes. He nodded, tipped his hat, and excused himself. He had to meet with Virgil that afternoon.

After flagging down a carriage and climbing into it, Patton glanced out to see Clara with her nose pressed to the window of the orphanage. She waved as he left, watching him go until she was just a vague suggestion in the backdrop of the city. Patton adjusted his cravat, unable to stop thinking of her. She was so young and so _scared_. Something had to have frightened her. It made his stomach hurt; who would frighten a little girl?

The carriage rattled as it rolled along the bustling city streets. It was a loud day. Overcast and muggy from the morning mist. Patton removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Clara had worn him out. Amelia gave him a _headache_. But at least he was going to see Virgil. That was a blessing for the day. A bit tired, he stepped down from the carriage, stumbled, and caught himself in the arms of a stranger.

“Oh!” He gasped, stood upright, and straightened his glasses. “Thank you, I— Virgil!” He looked up and saw two wide, gray eyes looking down at him. Once he had his feet under him, he laughed and patted Virgil’s arm. “I’m lucky! Not every man can say he’s been caught by a gentle giant.”

Virgil coughed a laugh. “Gentle giant? Do I live in the clouds, too?”

“With the angels? I’d certainly suspect it.” Patton smiled and Virgil looked away, seemingly embarrassed. Clearing his throat, Patton smoothed his coat and said, “You know. I was _just_ coming to see you.”

Virgil jumped back into action and pulled a small, wrapped parcel from his pocket. “Right! For the watch.” He worked on unwrapping it, and Patton’s heart sunk. It looked _perfect_. It still shone a brilliant, well-shined silver. On the back, looping script spelled a single word: _Liar._ Virgil has followed his instruction to a T. And Patton was only more bitter at the sight.

“Yes,” Patton said after a moment of staring. “Thank you.”

Virgil hesitated, his expression crumbling at he looked down at the watch. He coughed a bit into his opposite hand, a little uneasy as he stared down at the keepsake. “I was careful not to scratch the glass,” he said, “Or bend the clasp. Is… something wrong?”

Patton blinked hard and fluttered his hands. “No! Oh, no! No, my dear, dear man… nothing’s wrong. Just an… unhappy memory. It looks perfect. Thank you.” He glanced down at the watch once more and folded the wrapping over it. That was better. Out of sight and out of mind. Virgil took the hint and rewrapped the parcel. Patton smiled. “To be honest, Mr. Lent, I’d anticipated seeing you in your shop.”

Virgil winced. “Sorry, I—"

“Don’t you dare apologize; it’s fate we’ve run into one another. I’d only wanted to sit and talk a while.”

There was a long pause, and Virgil said, “You don’t seem… _yourself_ , Mr. Moore.”

Patton deflated a bit. “Don’t… don’t I?”

Reaching out a careful hand, Virgil took Patton’s wrist. Their skin never touched. Virgil’s hands were covered by gloves and Patton’s sleeve was a barrier between them. Distance upon distance… almost too far to feel. Still, Patton’s heart fluttered at the sensation.

“You aren’t sick, are you?” Virgil sounded uneasy… almost _frightened_ if Patton listened closely. “If so, you shouldn’t have come all this way. We could have arranged a different day to meet—"

“Oh… my dear,” Patton smiled and put a hand over Virgil’s. The distance still burned. Virgil’s jaw snapped shut. Patton sighed. “It’s so kind that you worry. But I’m alright. Just tired.”

Virgil gave him a hard look. “You say that… but you’ll still worry me, Mr. Moore.”

Patton laughed. “And under all those dark layers, there’s a warm heart in you. What a comfort!” Patton looked at the parcel again. He almost wanted to toss it in the gutter and be rid of it. But Virgil handed it to him. He took it and used every ounce of willpower he had not to throw it across the street. With a strained smile, Patton said, “Thank you, Mr. Lent. I’ll have to take this home and put it away until I have time to go out to his grave.”

Virgil nodded, still wary, and said, “I’ll walk you.”

“To my apartment?”

“Wherever you like, Mr. Moore.”

Patton felt his face flush as they started up the street. He could ask Virgil to go anywhere with him. Perhaps a fine tea house to sit and talk until the tea went sour. Maybe up to St. James Park to watch the swans in the pond. Or they could simply walk along the city pavement, shoulder to shoulder and hands almost brushing with each step. Patton wouldn’t mind that. He wouldn’t mind it at all.

But Virgil had work to do and Patton had a matron to find. Perhaps a posting in the paper would help…

Patton stumbled when a hand grasped his elbow and tugged him to the right. He blinked hard and glanced up at Virgil. He was met with a worrying expression.

“You looked ready to step into the street,” Virgil said lowly. Patton felt his ears burn as they continued walking. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m only distracted,” Patton replied with anxious giggle. Virgil’s hand still gripped his arm, and Patton leaned into him. For some reason, Virgil let him. Patton sighed. “I think… I think I’ve grown tired of things.”

Virgil coughed into his gloved hand. “I think a _lot_ of people are tired of things.”

Patton smiled thinly and gave Virgil a sidelong look. “What I mean to say is: I’ve grown tired of my own affairs.”

“Again,” Virgil murmured as he met Patton’s exhausted eye. “Many people are.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

Virgil took his hand away from Patton’s arm and Patton nearly mourned the loss. “Then _explain_ it,” ordered Virgil without a hint of room for argument. “If you mean ‘weary’ in the worldly sense, I understand. If you mean ‘weary’ in the physical sense, I understand that, too.”

“It’s different, I think,” Patton said softly. Virgil paused, looking at him closely, like Patton needed to be studied. They walked together in silence for a while, and Patton reached up to straighten his glasses as he said, “My family is successful.”

“Congratulations,” Virgil deadpanned. Patton didn’t react to that.

“I’ve been given the comfort of a life well-provided. I am allowed any and all comforts. I should be _grateful_.” Patton paused and heaved a deep, heavy sigh. “I should be _grateful_.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I am,” Patton admitted softly. A carriage swung close to the pavement and Patton stepped close to Virgil to avoid collision. Virgil put an arm around him, holding him close until the danger had passed. There hadn’t been any… not really. But Patton enjoyed the comfort all the same. “I feel _guilty_ ,” he murmured there in the crook of Virgil’s arm. “I feel like there’s more I could do. More I could _give_.”

Virgil’s arm around him tightened… and then released. They resumed walking as if nothing had happened. A minute settled between them like a forgotten thing; time passed and they grew closer to the apartment. Patton didn’t want to say goodbye. He almost spoke up there, to invite Virgil somewhere, _anywhere_ else… just to spend a bit more time with him. But Virgil spoke first.

“What more could you do?” He asked, a little bewildered. Patton looked at him. That caught him off-guard. What did he mean, ‘what more?’ There were a thousand things he could do. There were always people in need.

“I could dissolve my family’s fortune,” Patton said as he spread his hands in a demonstration. “Give it back to the people. To the lost and destitute.”

Virgil coughed hard before he said, “You wouldn’t be able to run your textiles business, would you? Your workers would be out of a job.”

Patton hesitated. “I could give away _my_ fortune. Whatever I’m given. I don’t need everything that I have. I don’t _need_ comfort or luxury—”

Virgil looked at him. “Then who would be there, in the Higher Places, making an example of himself? Mr. Moore, you’re the only gentleman who takes it upon himself to be _wholly good._ ”

Patton twitched and looked away. “Please don’t make me out to be righteous. Or a martyr.”

With a fond laugh, Virgil shook his head. “You’re not. I wouldn’t accuse you of being one, anyway.”

“And I’m not the only good person in the world, Mr. Lent. Hardly.”

Virgil looked at him for a long while. Patton could feel his stare. When Virgil stopped walking, Patton stopped and turned back to look at him. Virgil met him with a serious expression. “You’re not the only good person in the world, Mr. Moore. But at times…” he paused, coughed into his hand, and said, “At times, it certainly seems like you’re the only one worth knowing.”

Patton thought of those words long after he and Virgil had parted ways on the street. Long after he’d seen Dr. Stein in the doorway and bid him a good afternoon. He thought of them when he was pouring tea, listening to the Kingsley brothers making a racket on the second floor of the apartment. It wasn’t unusual to hear Remus cackling up there, pointing out where Roman could have done something new and avant-guarde.

He was also used to the clattering on the stairs and Remus swinging around the banister, hanging onto it as it groaned dangerously before he let go. He met Patton in the kitchen, slouching in a very _ungentlemanly_ manner as he ducked to catch his eye.

“You’re making a face,” Remus said knowingly. Patton carefully put the teacups onto a silver platter.

“Will you be staying for tea?”

“What’s got you all worked up?” Remus asked curiously, his mustache twitching as he fought to catch Patton’s gaze. Patton was careful to avoid him, turning and reaching for the bowl of sugar.

“I have plenty of tea, Remus.”

Leaning on the counter a little heavier, Remus pursed his lips, curled his mustache and said, “Is it sex?” Patton flushed and sputtered, and Remus grinned. “Ah. So it _is_ sex.”

“It isn’t…!” Patton paused, looked away and whispered, “ _Sex_.”

“But something of the like, hmm?” Remus turned and leaned his weight onto his elbows. “You’re going _red_ , Patton! Don’t deny it!”

Patton lifted the tea tray and pointedly walked away from Remus. “Are you staying for tea or not?”

“’fraid not,” Remus sighed as he pushed himself away from the counter with all the conviction of a man who had little else to do. “I just wanted to make sure my baby brother was still alive.” He followed Patton to the stairs, eyeing him dangerously through a dark, curling swath of brown hair. There, he stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching Patton take a few steps on his own before he said, “You know you coddle him.”

“Your brother?”

“Who else?” Remus snickered, his eyes sparkling behind that sneaky smile. “I think this doctor will be good for him. He doesn’t need another mother hen.”

Patton held the tray a little closer. “You think I’m bad for Roman?”

“I never said that!” Remus’s smile never left, but there was a softness in his eyes when he said, “You’ve been a good friend, Patton. Don’t doubt that. But sometimes Roman needs a stern hand. Maybe a good spanking from this doctor, hmm?”

Patton smiled and crinkled the corner of his eyes for good measure. “You said you’re not staying for tea?”

“Can’t!” Remus chirped on his way to grab his coat. “I’m going to perform a reading of my poetry at the parlor.”

Patton winced; Remus’s poetry was either dark, violent, _provocative,_ or a strange amalgamation of the three. He’d read a poem that Remus wrote and found himself blushing a furious red and unable to set the book aside fast enough. A _reading_ was sure to be… interesting at the least.

Remus left with a singsong ‘farewell!’ and a flutter of his fingers. Patton let him go; Remus was always energetic. In the oddest way. Not that Patton _disliked_ him as such… he was simply overwhelming. Patton found himself missing Virgil. Virgil and his quiet, calming company. Virgil and his nervous glances and unsure smiles. Taking a breath, Patton shouldered his way into Roman’s room and set the tray of tea on the table. Roman turned to see him, smiled, and returned to his painting.

“Remus left already?”

“He did,” Patton clasped his hands behind his back and approached the painting. It was beautiful, a wash of a gentle seascape. On the left, there was a house, clean and elegant, in the distance. A summer cottage? Patton cocked his head to the side… and smiled. “It’s beautiful.”

Roman smiled thinly as he dabbed at the canvas. “Mm… but not done yet. It’s missing _something._ ” He stepped back and looked at the stained-glass skies and grey-blue seas. Then, he frowned. “I remembered this place so _fondly_ when I was little. So why can’t I see what’s wrong with it?”

Patton hummed, unable to provide an answer. Roman looked at him. A long, meaningful look that made him seem closer than before.

“You look _odd_ ,” Roman said after a moment. Patton laughed, more than ready to laugh off the interaction. Roman, however, seemed keen on pursuing it. “No, don’t laugh at me. You look… dare I say it, you look _sad_. Who’s done this to you?” Roman set his paints aside, gathered Patton up in his arms, and held Patton’s head to his shoulder. “Who do I have to duel for you, hmm? Who made that sunshine smile disappear?”

Patton quirked an eyebrow. “You and your brother are more alike than you seem.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

With a heavy sigh, Patton stepped back and fidgeted with his hands. “I think… I’m in love.”

Roman paused, smiled wide, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh-ho? Who’s the lucky lady?” Patton stared at the floor, and Roman hummed appreciatively. “The lucky _man_ , then?” Patton wasn’t able to open his mouth before Roman sat down with his tea, slapped his knee, and said, “It’s that damn _engraver_ of yours, isn’t it? The one who keeps prowling around downstairs and avoiding me.”

Though Patton gave Roman a hard look, Roman was too busy pouring himself a cup of tea to care. “He doesn’t _prowl_ , I _invite_ him. And he stays downstairs because you _frighten_ him. You were so rude to him the first time he came to visit.”

“I wasn’t rude! I was simply…” Roman waved his hand. “Making a statement about his jacket.”

“You said that it was fit for the garbage heap.”

“I did _not_.”

Patton sighed and went to the window, leaning his hands on the sill heavily. Outside, women walked with their parasols and men marched along in confidant strides. He didn’t see Virgil among them. He was long gone by then. It left Patton a little numb and lonely… but even so, his words still struck Patton and left him a little shaken.

“Roman?”

Roman took a drink of tea and looked at him. “Yes, dear.”

“Am I a good man?”

Roman gave him an odd look as he set aside his cup and saucer. “A good man. Patton. You are my oldest and closest friend. _Are you a good man—_ You, my dear friend, are the _best_ man. The greatest man I’ve ever known. You own an orphanage—”

Patton blinked. “I finance the building, Roman. It’s not _my_ orphanage.”

Roman’s nose wrinkled. “You own the building.”

“I only plenty of buildings,” Patton muttered.

Waving his hand at that, Roman said, “You own the building! You pay the matron! You supply them with food and blankets! It’s a worthy cause and it shows your _good heart_.” Patton sighed and looked away. With a huff, Roman crossed his legs and said, “What’s that face for? Are you sad to know I think highly of you?”

Patton laughed, and it felt dry in his throat. Maybe even a little insincere. “I’m not _sad_ to know it. Just disbelieving.” Patton frowned and watched the world go on without him through that open window. People laughed, spoke, and carried on… and he felt stuck. “He said that I was a good man.”

Roman made a face. “Who? Oh. Your engraver. What was his name? Valence?”

Patton chuckled again, and this time, it felt natural. “ _Virgil_.”

“So he thinks highly of you, too,” Roman said calmly. He came to the window, standing next to Patton with a thoughtful expression on his face. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Patton frowned. “But he doesn’t… it isn’t…” Patton clenched his hands on the sill, glaring down at the happy people and their happy little lives. “Virgil isn’t… he doesn’t think of me like that. No honest man would want such things.”

Roman glanced at him. “Are you calling me dishonest?”

“Not outright,” Patton said, almost absently as he saw a woman drop her handkerchief on the ground below them. A man stooped to pick it up for her, returning it with a smiled that made the girl flutter her eyelashes and giggle shyly. Patton sighed. “Virgil wouldn’t want the company of a man, let alone _me_. He’ll go, he’ll find a lovely girl, marry her, have children and I’ll be… here.” He paused, then added, “Alone.”

There was a hint of hesitance before Roman said, “And what if he _does_ want you? What if he feels the same?”

“He doesn’t.”

“But what if—”

“Roman.” Patton looked at him. “Please.”

Still, Roman made a face and made a grand gesture with a sweep of his arm. “Why should we smother hope like this? Why not be outright in our intentions?”

With a shake of his head, Patton a shoulder against the wall adjacent to the wall and smiled. “You only say that because you’re enamored with Dr. Stein.”

“And what if I am? He’s so _dark_ and _serious_.”

“Is that all you like of him?” Patton asked coyly. “Just his seriousness.”

“I want to know why a man so cold and distant chose to be a doctor,” Roman admitted softly, his eyes looking far away as he stared out the window. “I want to know why he’s so far away when I can reach out and touch him. I want…” he trailed off, seemingly unprepared to finish his statement. He swallowed his other words, finishing with a soft, whispered, “I wonder if poetry and a kind word would make him smile.”

Heaving another sigh, Patton looked out at the rooftops beyond them. “I wish it wasn’t love,” he said softly. “I wish I could just enjoy the comradery without all this…” Patton squirmed and sighed, “ _Yearning._ ”

“How do you know he doesn’t return your affections?” Roman asked gently. He reached out to touch Patton’s shoulder, a reassuring pat before the hand fell away. “There must be a reason he comes _here_ to see _you_. Most businessmen would make _you_ come to _them_.”

Patton looked away. “He’s humoring me.”

“But—”

_“Roman_ ,” Patton said, a little strained as he rubbed his brow tiredly. “It doesn’t matter what I hope for. He won’t feel the same.”

Roman’s expression was carved from stone. “A depressing view of things.”

Patton avoided his eye. “It isn’t righteous.”

This time, Roman scoffed and gave a dramatic shrug. “ _Righteous_. God placed us on this earth to _love_ one another… and now people say there are _restrictions_?” Patton didn’t respond, and Roman went on. “That way I see it, any man should be able to love whomever he damn well pleases.”

That tugged at Patton’s heart. That would be a wonderful word. A place where anyone could reach out and love anyone. Where there weren’t a thousand layers of distance between two people. Where a touch wasn’t so much to make Patton’s heart shake so much it felt like it would shatter. With a deep breath, Patton wrapped his arms around himself.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Without warning, Roman stepped forward and put an arm around Patton’s shoulder, pulling him into a sideways embrace. They looked out the window together, staring down a rain-gray city in silence for a moment. It was a loud day below them, the noise all blurring together to create a fog of sound… one that couldn’t reach them where they looked out at the sky.

“What about an engraver with an old coat strikes your fancy?” Roman asked after a moment. Patton snorted and laughed and Roman smiled at him. “It’s an honest question! What drew you in? What set your heart aflutter? What reached into you, my dear friend, and made you yearn for love?”

Patton glanced at Roman… and then looked away. “He’s polite… and kind. But it’s hidden under a thick layer… like highland wool covering silk.”

“Poetic!” Roman laughed. Patton smiled, but it didn’t reach deep.

“He’s also very sad. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at me. Like I could have… said something. Or done something. But there’s something in him. A warm that draws you in. He’s a kind man,” he said it confidence, then, a little quieter, “But hollow. As if he’s missing something. As if he’s not enough. But he _is_ ,” Patton murmured, “He’s more than enough.”

Roman stared at him, his arm around Patton’s shoulder tightening a bit. “My god, you really _do_ love him.”

Patton took a shuddering breath. “I do. I wish I didn’t, but I—”

With a calm hand, Roman tucked Patton’s head into his shoulder and held him close. “You can’t guarantee that he doesn’t feel the same. If he had half of something between his ears, he’d love you more than anyone in the world. He’d think you were the most handsome man in all of England.”

Patton laughed and it caught on a few tears, making him hiccup and gasp. “I’m not. Roman, I know I’m not—”

“He could, Patton.” He sounded so sure. Like what they suggested didn’t break the law. Like love was available to anyone and everyone, even broken men like them. Roman pet his hair and Patton grasped at the back of his vest helplessly. “Let your heart hope instead of smothering it.”

“How can you always be so _hopeful_?” Patton mumbled into his shoulder. Roman held him closer and sighed.

“Because hope is all I have left.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Victorian speech means _never_ saying what you actually mean and repressing everything until you sound like a poet.  
> Such _majestic_ creatures.  
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes. Drop by to say hi!  
> See you next chapter!


	4. Honey-Sweet Springtime

“So… hang on. Let me get this straight.” Thomas sat back from his laptop. He didn’t _really_ want to believe what had been written, but it was there in black and white and hard to ignore. “You… _tortured_ people who owed you money.”

Dee made a face where he sat at the dining table. “You make it sound so _barbaric_ when you say it like that.”

“I mean. It _was_ ,” Thomas insisted. “It _was_ barbaric.”

Remus was bouncing his leg irritably, his eyes flicking between the two of them impatiently. “ _Thomas,_ please. That was _in the past_. Can we move on and talk about _other things_?”

“You mean. _Other_ _things_ from the past?” Thomas asked, a little perturbed by the way Dee snickered and shook his head. Thomas drummed his hands on the table. “I’m sure learning a lot… a lot about a landlord and an engraver… and the fact that the Duell’s were a sort of… Victorian-era mafia.”

That caught Dee’s attention. “A Victorian-era… _what?”_

Remus waved that away. “You’re getting off-track, Thomas. This isn’t all about Dee and his nefarious, titillating secrets that he hid in the basement – yes, there are still bloodstains in the stone stairs – this is _supposed_ to be about setting the record straight for my brother and us.”

Thomas glanced at him and made a note to go check the stairs for stains. “O _kay_ … but the torturing thing is pretty freakin’ interesting. I mean… it was speculated and there were _theories_ … but I never thought they were _true_.”

“Ah,” Dee sat back with a fond smile. “Our family has become infamous. Mother would be proud.”

Remus bounced his legs with more vigor. “Yes, _yes,_ but we _know that_ already. But you _don’t_ know how Roman and the good doctor grew closer.”

Thomas blinked slowly and stood up. He went to the kitchen… and was followed by the ghosts. They watched him put on a pot of coffee. “Okay,” Thomas yawned. “You could just… give me the _summed-up_ version.”

Remus stared at him. “Doing that would be the same thing as offering the _wildest_ night of sex and then simply slapping someone across the face.”

Thomas paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, “I _fail_ to see how that metaphor even applies.”

“ _Thomas_ ,” Remus stressed as delicately as he could. He stepped forward, rested his elbows on the counter, and gave Thomas a long, serious look. “There’s no detail too small. Each piece _means_ something.”

Thomas glanced at Dee. Dee shrugged and waved his hand to and fro. It seemed he wouldn’t disagree with his husband out loud. Thomas sighed. “Okay. Fine.”

“Excellent!” Remus grinned and curled his mustache like he’d _won_ something. Then, he lifted himself onto the counter, perching himself on the wood surface while he said, “You know… Roman was a very _sickly_ child.”

“I _did_ know that,” Thomas replied softly. The coffeepot started to hiss and bubble, and Remus watched it for a moment, apparently _very_ amused, before Thomas said, “Roman’s illness was well-documented. He spent his entire adult life dealing with it.”

“He did,” Remus said as he twisted the end of his mustache thoughtfully. “But those documents… they didn’t say _anything_ about Roman and the doctors that visited him, did they?”

Thomas drummed his fingers on the counter. “Not really. I mean… when I was asleep, you wrote something about… Roman not liking doctors? Because of your parents? What’s up with that?”

Remus pursed his lips, sidestepped the question, and said, “You know… a lot of them visited. But only because Patton, Andréa, or I would be the ones to send them. I don’t think Roman would _ever_ call for a doctor willingly. Not until Dr. Stein.”

Thomas’s eyes flickered over to Dee when his first name was used… but Dee didn’t look bothered. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice. He was watching Reus’s expression and gestures. He was uncharacteristically stiff where he was sitting on the counter, and he wasn’t as loud as before. He was… dare Thomas think it, _reserved_ where he sat.

With a flick of his wrist, Remus leaned his palms against the counter and crossed his legs. “It’s _funny_ … it was so _obvious_ that he liked Dr. Stein’s company. It’s a wonder the man couldn’t _see it_.”

Dee smiled at that, a little cheeky where he was standing next to the kitchen island. “Dr. Stein was oblivious. Let the poor man be.”

“I won’t,” Remus promised. “Not until we set things right.” The coffeepot _beeped,_ Thomas poured himself a cup, and went looking for plenty of sugar to cut out the bitterness. Remus smiled as the jar was brought out of the cabinet. “You know… Dr. Stein liked sugar, too. He was a real glutton for sweets, if you’d believe it.”

Thomas glanced at him. “Really.”

Remus nodded and looked off into the distance, that same goofy smile on his face as he said, “The next time he met with Roman, they actually _spoke_ about it…”

The spoon clicked delicately against the cup as Thomas stirred, but Remus didn’t look at him. He was far away in a memory. Dee was watching him, though. Like something important would be revealed if he stared long enough.

Thomas took a sip of coffee that was too sweet. “The next time Roman and Dr. Stein met?”

“Mmm,” Remus didn’t turn to grin wickedly at him, like he usually did. Those green eyes looked into the distance, and when he spoke, it was hardly more than a whisper. “A week after I met Dr. Stein for the first time, Roman fell ill again. It didn’t take much. It was a warm day, with the rain hot on the horizon and the air too heavy to cool. Roman woke up with a fever…”

+++++

There were very few things that could stop a man like Roman Kingsley. A hurricane would stop him, surely. Enough brandy would knock him off his feet. The simplest thing? A _fever_.

Roman knew he was sickly. He wasn’t stupid. He could tell he was frail and delicate in comparison to his brother… but he didn’t want it to stop him. He didn’t want to be held back. He could create just as many stories, poems, and paintings as his brother! He just had to ignore the warning signs his body sent him.

Chills were one thing. He could handle those. The shaking was another. While he stood at his easel, ready to resume painting, his hands shivered, and body wracked with chills that made him want to sit down. Then the overheating came, an endless loop of hot and cold while Roman tried to reign it in and grit his teeth. He’d resigned himself to writing that day, hunched over his desk and pouring over a poem about spring.

_Trees bow and welcome a breeze from Paris_

_Gentle, gentle against snow-cold stone._

_Spring has risen from the ground, her hair_

_Alight with flowers and lips tasting_

_Of nectar._

_Ong the sfare, purposefsul light, gnetle and dfre--_

Roman paused, squinted, and realized he wasn’t writing properly anymore. Damn fever. Damn thoughts getting jumbled so he couldn’t even see straight. With a growl, he sat back and shouted, “ _Patton!”_ Followed by a harsh round of coughing.

There was no answer.

Roman melted against his desk. Patton was out that afternoon. He’d told Roman he’d be gone, attending to some family matters… or perhaps the orphanage. Roman couldn’t recall. He felt heavy and listless. He didn’t know how to make it all go away… sleeping would sooth this fever. But the cough still itched at the back of his throat. Roman scrubbed a hand over his face; he could use a doctor. But getting a doctor would mean calling for him. Calling for him meant going down the stairs and, in perfect honesty, Roman didn’t think he could handle that.

Instead, he went to the window, leaned out, and squinted at the people below him. A group of young men were talking excitedly on the corner, their eyes bright with youth as Roman leaned on the sill with a little more effort.

“You there! Boy!” He waved his hand until one of the young men looked at him, astonished that he was called out. Roman tossed him a shilling and said, “Send for a doctor! Doctor Stein! Tell him it’s urgent!”

The boys looked at each other, shrugged, and wandered off in the vague, apparent direct of Dr. Stein’s office. Maybe they were just walking away with a shilling. Roman didn’t care at that point. He simply sank down, below his window, and leaned his head back against the sill. Whether or not Dr. Stein would come, he was stuck there. He felt full of lead. His head was awash with cotton. He coughed until his lungs felt numb. Then, he closed his eyes. Just for a spell. He’d get up in a moment, he promised himself. He’d force himself to stand and resume painting. That would do him good. He would… he would…

“Mr. Kingsley?”

Roman’s eyes snapped open. Logan Stein stood in his doorway with a baffled look on his face. He looked harried, like he’d come in a great hurry. Roman smiled at the sight… and sighed. “Dr. Stein.”

Logan’s expression melted into one of malcontent. “I knocked and no one answered. I assumed…” Logan’s jaw worked a bit before he grumbled, “I was _told_ … that it was _urgent_. This,” he indicated to Roman slumped on the floor, “Is _not_ urgent.”

“It is. Oh, it is,” Roman smiled at that disapproving frown. “I had to see you.”

Logan opened his mouth, probably to say _“Mr. Kingsley,”_ in that disapproving voice. _“Mr. Kingsley,”_ he’d say with a shake of his head and a deep, deep voice that made Roman smile. He would have said it. If Roman hadn’t started coughing.

Luckily, Logan remained quiet through the coughing fit, watching Roman with a pinched, pained expression until Roman could catch his breath. Then, Logan placed his doctor’s bag on the bed and went to give Roman a hand up. “Come along, Mr. Kingsley. Let’s put you to bed.”

Dizzily, Roman reached for the offered hand. After a few missed attempts, Logan grasped his wrist, bare skin gripping skin, and hauled Roman to his feet. Roman stumbled, laughed, and leaned against Logan’s shoulder. “You’re strong!” He said. Logan hummed and towed Roman to the bed. “Where did you become so strong, Dr. Stein? Do you box in your spare time?”

 _That_ was a vision. Dr. Stein in a boxing ring. Bare-chested and knuckles wrapped in bandages as he threw a left hook, one-two, one-two…

“I don’t,” Logan grumbled as he set Roman on the bed. There, he tilted Roman’s head back and looked into his eyes. “Look at me, Mr. Kingsley.”

“I _am,_ Doctor. A beautiful sight, I assure you.”

Logan frowned and stepped away. Roman felt a tightness in his chest; had he been too forward? He coughed a bit, but the tightness of anxiety didn’t leave. Logan came back with his stethoscope, a firm hand on Roman’s shoulder as he listened to his lungs. 

“Your eyes are unfocused,” he said after a moment of listening. “I couldn’t tell if you were looking me in the eye.”

Roman hummed, feeling the cool metal of the stethoscope through his cotton shirt. He breathed deep, coughed into his hand, and groaned unhappily. “ _Guh_. I _hate_ this.”

Logan’s hand on his shoulder tightened. “Have you been painting again?”

“Tried. But I didn’t have the chance. The fever started this morning.”

Logan frowned and adjusted his stethoscope. “Another deep breath, please.”

“ _Please,_ he says. So polite.” Roman took another deep breath, felt the spike of a cough in his throat, and wheezed until he could catch his breath. This resulted in his leaning forward into Logan, grasping at his vest like an anchor while he coughed hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. Logan’s hand never left his shoulder.

“Deep breaths, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman was startled into a laugh. “What do you think I’m _trying_ for? Gasping?”

Logan’s time was… dare he say it… _playful_ as he said, “Could’ve fooled me.”

Out of spite, Roman coughed again. He felt the starch of Logan’s vest in his fisted hand. The warmth of Logan’s palm through his shirt. After a few shuddering breaths, Roman sat forward and leaned his head against Logan’s side. Logan went rigid under him, clearly at a loss, but Roman didn’t mind. He sighed.

“Sweet scent… honey? Springtime in a jar.”

Logan’s hand twitched away from Roman’s shoulder. “I beg your pardon?”

Roman sighed again. “You smell sweet. Not vanilla. Not champagne. But maybe honey.” He sat back and stared through Logan. “My mother would put honey on warm biscuits for breakfast… but only in spring.”

Logan arched an eyebrow and tucked his stethoscope back into his bag. “That sounds like a treat, Mr. Kingsley.”

“It is,” Roman murmured. Logan’s hand came to his shoulder again. He was pushed back. Gently. Slowly. Before he knew it, Roman was lying back and Logan was pulling blankets over him. Roman blinked groggily. “It… _was_. She’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Logan, but the words didn’t reach. They were too distant. Roman looked at him, and Logan was digging through his bag again.

“Did your mother make you biscuits and honey?” He asked, unsure of why he did. Logan looked at him.

“No,” he said, “She didn’t.”

They watched each other for a moment, like fighters sizing up their opponents. Logan broke first, peering into his bag like it held the secrets to this conversation. Roman pushed the blankets down a bit. He was too hot.

“Dr. Stein.”

“Mr. Kingsley?”

“Do you have a name?” He asked sloppily. Logan gave in an odd look, and Roman licked his lips. “I don’t think you’ve ever introduced yourself to me.”

Logan reached into his bag and produced a small, silver box. Roman knew what that was. Logan sat on the bed. “I think you’re confused, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Am not,” Roman fought weakly. Logan took his arm, settled a cloth under it, and fiddled with the box. Roman blinked slowly. “Surely, your mother doesn’t call you ‘Doctor’. You have a _name,_ don’t you?”

Logan’s lips turned down into a frown. Well, that wasn’t good. Roman said something wrong. The metal box opened. A spring-loaded blade for bloodletting. Roman grimaced and Logan reset the blade. “My mother didn’t have the chance to know me as a doctor. She passed shortly after my graduation.”

The blade _snapped_ open and shut _,_ Roman winced, and blood dripped onto the cloth. Logan put the box aside and held the cloth to Roman’s arm. Hopefully, it would let out the fever. Roman reached up his other hand to touch Logan’s arm, just softly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Logan didn’t look at him. There was a hurt deep behind the stone-still expression he wore. A pain that glinted in the light through the window. Roman’s fingers dragged down his arm, and Logan didn’t look at him. “She must’ve been a wonderful woman.”

There was a long pause. For a moment, Roman wondered if he imagined saying that last bit. But after that pause, Logan cradled Roman’s bleeding arm in careful hands and whispered, “She was. She was remarkable.”

Then, Roman smiled. “Must have been. To make a man like you, she must’ve been an angel.”

There was a ghost of a smile on Logan’s lips as he said, “There’s no such thing as angels, Mr. Kingsley. Hold this, please.”

Roman held the blood-dampened cloth to his arm while Logan went looking for bandages. “Can’t you let me compliment your mother? Surely, she taught you _manners._ ”

“She did,” Logan said calmly. “She also taught me to be _realistic_. Hold still.”

He took the cloth from Roman’s arm and set on wrapping clean linen around the three linear cuts on his arm. Roman sighed; he was feeling a little better. Colder than before… but a little dizzier. The world was dark… when had he closed his eyes? They shot back open in time to see Logan fasten the linen with a pin. Roman glanced at the bandages.

“You didn’t bleed me the first time you came.”

“You weren’t coughing like this the first time.” Logan cleaned the spring-blade cutter quietly for a moment. “And I don’t particularly _like_ bloodletting.”

Roman’s eyebrows made a run for his hairline. “My god, a squeamish doctor? I’ve seen it all.”

“Not _squeamish_ ,” Logan said sharply. “ _Skeptical_. I’ve seen very little that can be helped with bleeding. Perhaps something better will come along to help your ailments.”

Roman blinked. “Then why bleed me now? Do you think it’ll help?”

Logan reached into his bag and produced a brown bottle of syrup. He set it on the bedstead. “I think if you’re so ill so often, there must be something wrong with your humors. Have you been sleeping well, Mr. Kingsley?”

Roman fumbled. “Wha—sleeping? Well. Yes. I’d suppose. In a manner of speaking.”

Logan glanced at him over the rim of his glasses, a sharp glint in his eye, and opened the bottle. He poured a spoonful of the syrup, held it out to Roman, and waited. Roman hesitated, giving the spoon a distrustful look. Logan grimaced.

_“Take the medicine.”_

Roman sat forward and drank the syrup. It was thick like molasses and tasted just as disgusting. If the look on Logan’s face was an indication, his face was as sour as the taste. Logan capped the bottle and set it aside. “That should help with the cough… now, get some rest, Mr. Kingsley. I’ll visit tomorrow to see how you feel.”

Roman reached out, holding Logan’s wrist with a clammy hand. He felt warm again. “Leaving already? You just arrived!”

Logan gave him an odd look. He was still handsome, even when confused. Those eyes saw into him, cutting him into neat, equal pieces where Roman lay vulnerable and besotted in front of him. Logan adjusted his glasses. “You’re sick, Mr. Kingsley. Most people like to _sleep_ when they’re sick.”

“I’m not most people,” Roman grumbled unhappily.

“No,” Logan admitted. “You’re not.”

For a long sixty seconds, they stared at one another. Watching to see who would make the next move. Roman inhaled and smelled that sugary smell. He smiled.

“You still smell sweet,” he whispered. Logan rolled his eyes and Roman laughed. “You do! Truly! Why do you smell like honey and sugar? Are you springtime personified? Do you frolic in fields, too?” Logan glared at him. Roman laughed harder, resulting in some painful coughing, but the look on Logan’s face was worth it. When he caught his breath, he settled back against his pillow. “A sweet-smelling Doctor. It sounds like an interesting story.”

Logan shifted where he sat. “Hardly. My mother enjoyed a lot of sugar in her tea.”

Roman smiled. “And she handed down a sweet-tooth?”

The good doctor almost looked bashful as he straightened his glasses. “I’m afraid so. Herbal teas and sugar… that’s all she had in her last few days. To this day, I can’t stomach tea without plenty of sugar.”

Roman nodded stoically. His eyelids were starting to feel heavy… but he couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not when he was _learning things_ about his doctor. “Sweet jasmine is better than plain black tea.”

Logan looked at him… then looked away. “I grew up in a poor household. We didn’t have much. Even so, my mother opened her heart to another child in need. And even _he_ gained her sweet tooth. To this day, he always has three spoonfuls of sugar in his tea.”

Roman blinked and it became harder to open his eyes. “Sounds like birds of a feather.”

“In a way,” Logan admitted. Roman forced his eyes back open when Logan made a move to leave. Roman toon his wrist again, and Logan huffed. “Mr. Kingsley. You’re falling asleep. You have no need for me to stay.”

His smile was drunk when Roman said, “I enjoy speaking with you.”

Logan averted his eyes, turning to the window that overlooked the street. He let out. A long, tired exhale. “You spoke of your mother,” he said, like he wasn’t sure what else to say. “And honeyed-biscuits?”

Roman smiled and closed his eyes. “Only in spring. She would only make them in spring.” He could smell the biscuits baked into her dresses. The bubble of her laughter, the sticky-sweet honey on their hands… a kiss for him and Remus. The dust of flour in the air. Roman sighed, his hand losing its grip on Logan. “She would… make them for breakfast. We would share. Remus would sneak spoonfuls of honey. Father would… Father would…” 

He felt a hand touch his. Logan? He seemed far away. Roman opened his eyes and Logan was looking at him, listening with an attentive expression. Roman smiled. “Father would laugh at us. The flour in our hair and honey on our hands. He said we ‘made trouble for the maids’ with all our mess. But he kissed Mother and ate the biscuits… he smiled. He always smiled.” He paused, an old ache pulling at his heart. “I have his smile. Remus says so.”

Logan said, “It’s a handsome smile.” And then looked a little startled that he said such a thing. Roman laughed a little, too tired to tease.

“No more handsome than yours, Dr. Stein.”

Logan didn’t respond to that. He looked away. Roman blinked but couldn’t open his eyes again. His grip went slack. Logan’s presence slipped further and further from him. He wanted to say goodbye. To thank Logan for coming. He wanted to say something, _anything_ more, but his body was too heavy with sleep to obey. But he heard Logan’s voice, so gentle that it almost seemed like a dream.

“Sleep well, Mr. Kingsley.”

+++++

Thomas was in the kitchen when he heard this bit of the story. After he put cheese and ham between some bread, slathered it with butter and put it in the fry pan and toast, he listened to Remus as he recalled this story with an odd fondness. It wasn’t like he was happy to tell a story about his brother feeling sick… no, he was happy to reference his parents. Thomas could hear it in his voice and see it in his smile.

“From everything I’ve read,” Thomas said as he flipped his sandwich and listened to it sizzle. “Your parents passed away when you were sixteen?”

Remus was sitting atop the kitchen island, his legs swinging as he hummed. “That’s right.”

Thomas glanced back at him. “You grew up with some good parents.”

Remus’s legs stopped swinging. “Did you expect me to be raised in a broken, angry home? Did you expect blood under my fingernails and screams in my diary?”

Thomas sat down with his finished sandwich. “I already _know_ what was in your diary. It’s just… nice. To know that you had happy, loving parents.”

Dee sat next to Thomas, inspecting his fingernails calmly as he said, “Is it uncommon for people to be deeply in love?”

Thomas chewed thoughtfully. “No. Not really. But you hear plenty of bad stories… it’s hard to think of anything other than the bad stuff.”

Remus sighed. “E _nough_ being dreary. Were you listening to the story? Or just my adoration for my parents?”

Thomas took another bite of his sandwich and hummed. “Yup. Roman was sick. Logan came to help. Bloodletting, sweet-tooth, bonding. I was listening.”

Dee blinked at him. “And you said all of that with food in your mouth.”

Remus came to the table and sat down, lifting his feet to rest them on the fiberglass that covered the wood. “ _Hushushushush_ , Dee! Let him eat. This next bit is important.” He paused, then added, “ _Every_ bit is important, but I want him to pay attention.”

Thomas made sure to swallow before he said, “I’m listening.”

Remus rocked back his chair dangerously; it wouldn’t matter if he fell. He was already dead. With a smile, Remus folded his hands behind his head and said, “Now… let’s talk about what happened after the good doctor left my brother.”

+++++

Patton had the watch in his pocket. He’d left it there, against all desire otherwise, because he’d simply _forgotten_ about it. He wished he could forget everything on command. Wouldn’t that be nice? To pick and choose what should be recalled. But if something was _meant_ to be forgotten… would it be impossible to remember? 

This is too much introspection.

In summation, the watch was in Patton’s coat pocket when he went to the orphanage. He’d went to the printers first, posting a second job offer to anyone willing. But then after dragging himself away from the fines and payment of pricing-per-letter, Patton sloughed into the orphanage and found himself with an armful of Clara.

Apparently, after their first meeting nearly a week ago, she’d taken a shine to him. So much so, she didn’t like to speak to Amelia. So only waited for Patton. He picked her up and held her. He walked and talked with her. And she smiled and laughed… why would someone hurt this little girl? Why had she run away from home? Patton was scared to know.

He’s stayed for several hours with Clara, gently trying to decipher her secrets to little success.

“Clara,” He said softly where he sat with her on the stairs. She was dipping into his pockets, pulling things out, and putting them back. After a bit of digging, she found his handkerchief and proceeded to carefully fold it. He smiled. “Clara?”

“Mm?”

“Where are your parents?” She shrugged. Patton thinned his lips. “Did they bring you here?”

Clara folded his handkerchief into a small, small square. “No.”

She looked scared. He reached out to push her messy red hair from her face, and he smiled at her. “Do they know you’re here?”

Clara handed him the handkerchief, Patton thanked her, and wiped a bit of dirt from her cheek. Clara’s voice was soft when she said, “Da doesn’t know.”

“Da,” Patton repeated. “Your father.”

Clara nodded. “Da.”

Patton leaned his elbows on his knees, leaning forward so Clara could pretend to wipe his cheek. She was gentle as she did so, playing pretend at being a high-class lady. Patton gave her a strained smile. “And want about your mother?”

Clara put the kerchief in Patton’s pocket again. “Mama’s gone. Da said so.”

Patton flinched, and then sat back so Clara could dig in his coat pocket again. She found the parcel with the watch, turning over the wrapping with a confused look. He took the watch and put it back in his pocket. “Clara,” He said again, catching her eye. “Why did you come to this place? Who told you about the orphanage?”

Clara blinked up at him with wide, glittering brown eyes. “I saw children! I thought… I wanned to go somewhere with _safe_. Safe children.”

Patton paused, thought, and then said, “ _Safety_. You wanted to go somewhere with safety.” Clara nodded and climbed into Patton’s lap. He let her, bouncing her on his knee a bit while she giggled. It was odd; children didn’t come wandering into orphanages willingly. Something happened to her. Something Clara wasn’t capable of explaining. With a gentle hand, Patton smoothed her coiled hair and sighed. “Were you not safe with your Da? Is that why you came here?”

Clara didn’t answer.

That conversation stayed with Patton as he climbed into a carriage and left low-town London. Clara was uneasy with people, that was certain… but the reasons why were just as troubling. It could be anything. Physical violence. Screaming or drunken stumbling… Patton didn’t like any of those options. When the carriage pulled to a stop, his stomach was turned with uneasy thoughts. He stepped out and immediately went toward Virgil’s workshop.

Through the window, Patton could see Virgil were he always was, hunched over the counter and carefully shaving away pieces of silver. It seemed he was working on a locket. Patton remembered their conversation about the young men and their gifts to young ladies… Patton pushed that aside and stepped into the shop. Virgil’s head raised just a bit so he could say, “Afternoon,” and then he looked down again. There was a beat of silence, and then Virgil looked up in earnest. “Mr. Moore!”

Patton smiled and let out a breath. “Hello, Mr. Lent. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You’re not,” Virgil promised. Patton glanced at the locket he was engraving, and Virgil quietly said, “You’re interrupting… a _little_ bit. But what can I do for you?” He suddenly looked anxious and, if Patton looked close enough, a little sad. “There wasn’t anything wrong with your pocket watch, was there?”

“Oh, no. No, not at all. May I?” Patton indicated to a stool by the counter and Virgil, looking a little surprised, motioned for him to sit. Patton did, dropping his hands into his lap as he sagged where he sat. “It’s been a difficult day.”

Virgil fiddled with his tools. “And it’s hardly the afternoon.”

Patton smiled. “Please, don’t stop on my account. I’d love to see you work.”

Virgil coughed a bit when he laughed, then hunched back over his work. “It isn’t interesting, I promise.”

But it was. It was _incredible_ watching him work. There were just the slightest movements of his hands, drops of chemicals poured into the locket, and then more cutting. It was intricate. Patton could see the need for the magnifying glasses on his face. He held his breath when he engraved… and breathed when he poured chemicals and wiped away shavings of silver. He was an artisan of tiny, delicate proportions. Patton was in awe of each breath.

“So,” Virgil said as he poured a bit of solution onto the silver. Patton forced his eyes back to Virgil’s face as he leaned over his work. “Out shopping?”

Patton’s eyes slid back to Virgil’s hands that were stained a dull silver. “What?”

Virgil chuckled and it sent butterflies fluttering through Patton’s stomach. “I asked if you were out shopping.”

“Oh! No, I was at the orphanage.”

Virgil paused, sat back, and gave Patton a curious look. “Orphanage?”

Patton fumbled; Virgil knew he was charitable. And yet he was surprised. Had they never spoken about the orphanage? Apparently not. “I finance an orphanage,” he said dumbly. 

Virgil didn’t look away. “And you visit it often?”

“When I can,” Patton said, little uneasy. “My sister tells me I should be more upfront about the family business ‘Those workers will pay for less!’ she tells me. But even if I pay them a higher wage against her will, she’s always bickering. It doesn’t sit well with Mother.”

Virgil hummed, clearly at a loss.

Patton sat forward, “The fighting upsets her. Mother, I mean. So, if I can be charitable elsewhere, it makes Serena happy.” He paused, then said, a little to himself, “My _sister._ Serena. I… you know, I’m much happier using profits on the orphanage.”

Virgil gave him a _look_. It was an honest one. Full of emotion and sentiment. Patton drank it in, seeing that relaxed and open _feeling_ in his gray eyes. Then, like nothing had happened, Virgil turned back to his work. “So. You went to the orphanage. But what brought you to my shop?”

Patton smiled softly, his heart fluttering as he said, “I wanted to see you.” Virgil glanced at him, and Patton softened at his confused expression. “You do wonders for my mood, Mr. Lent.”

Virgil looked away. “Am I that amusing?”

Patton’s smile fell. “I think you’re wonderful company, Mr. Lent. I enjoy spending time with you. When you brush aside that fact, it’s… sad.”

Virgil didn’t turn away from his work. “I’m a simple working man, Mr. Moore. Can you blame me for being skeptical?”

“Of my words?”

“Of your _intentions._ ” Virgil sat back, coughed into his arm, and went back to working. “Why would a well-to-do man like you want to spend your time with me?”

Patton huffed. “I already said I—"

“Yes,” Virgil cut him off hard. “Yes, you enjoy my company. But _why?”_

“Because you’re kind,” Patton said gently. “And you get so easily flustered… but you speak honestly. You have heart, Virgil. And good character.”

Virgil paused… and sat back to look at him. “I can’t… I just don’t understand why you care for me. I’m indecisive. And moody. And impatient.”

Patton laughed a little. “Are you asking me why I care for you? Or why these flaws are part of your personality?”

Virgil gave him a long look. “Both.”

“No man is perfect, Mr. Lent.” Patton smiled, and Virgil didn’t look away. It made Patton feel like he was on fire, glowing with light as Virgil watched him. “But imperfections are perfected when loved by another.”

Patton’s heart seized; he said too much. It slipped out. Virgil was staring at him. He should leave. Run. Excuse himself and never come back.

Virgil’s words stopped him. “I pity whoever is going to fall in love with me,” he said, completely misunderstanding Patton’s words. “I don’t think my imperfections could be ‘perfected.’”

It would be a lie if Patton said he wasn’t relieved. But he was also incredibly sad to hear that. “I think you’re wonderful as you are,” he said softly. Virgil shrugged, and Patton laughed. “Is that so strange?”

Virgil went back to the locket, a small smile on his face. “The only wonderful person here is _you_.”

And _that_ shot through Patton’s chest like a bullet. He couldn’t smother his smile if he tried. The door swung open again, and an older woman stepped inside. Patton slid off his stool and straightened his vest.

“I suppose I’ll leave you, Mr. Lent.”

Virgil looked up, saw the woman, frowned, and said, “I suppose so.” He looked at Patton. “Thanks for the company.”

Patton laughed. “I should be thanking you!”

With that, Patton allowed the woman to come further into the shop as he stepped outside. Already, he felt lighter. He felt _better_ … though he was sad to leave Virgil. He’d be happier to stay with him all afternoon, talking with him until the sky went dark and the lamps were lit. Patton sighed; he couldn’t do that. Roman had been sick all morning. Perhaps he should have called for Dr. Stein… Patton heaved another sigh.

His talk with Roman last week had brought little comfort… no matter how much Roman said he could _hope,_ Patton didn’t really think there was any chance. Which was sad. Because he couldn’t imagine loving anyone _other_ than Virgil. He could dream and hope like Roman said. He could wish for Virgil to love him. He could hope that Virgil’s words meant more than they did. But he knew he truth.

Virgil saw him as a companion and nothing more. They were acquaintances at worst and friends at best. It was foolish to hope for more. Patton knee better than to wish on stars.

And you, dear reader, know even better than that.

+++++

Thomas massaged his temples. “You guys keep saying that Mr. Moore is important. And I _really_ want to believe you. I just… how is this all fitting? Where is the butterfly-effect?”

Dee stared at him. “I have _no idea_ what that is supposed to mean.” He glanced at Remus and stage-whispered, “ _Butterfly effects?”_ Remus shrugged, clearly displeased with the question, and Dee said, “Thomas, each action taken by these men – Remus and I included – was interwoven. Without one, it would be impossible to know the other.” He paused, frowned, then snapped, “I’ve already _told_ you this. Are you touched in the head?”

Thomas nursed his coffee and grimaced. “I mean. I’m seeing ghosts. So… _maybe_.”

“Thomas, Thomas…” Dee sat forward, steepled his hands under his chin, and spoke in a low, serious voice that sent chills down Thomas’s spine. “In our time, being public with these _affections_ was _dangerous_. So, having someone to confide in made things _easier_ for certain people. Easier still when those people _understood_ those intimate desires.”

Remus snickered. “ _Intimate desires_.”

Dee glanced at him, smiled, and returned his gaze to Thomas. “You must understand. Each conversation shared between these individuals brings us closer to the endgame.”

“Check and _mate_ ,” Remus punctuated with a grin.

“Right,” Thomas nodded as he turned his coffee cup in circles. “I’m just trying to see where it all fits.”

“That’s the wonder of a story, Thomas!” Remus bounced in his seat and gave Thomas a wink. “Twists and turns make you doubt the outcome! Who is happy and who ends up heartbroken? Let the Fates pull the strings and by god, you might find _yourself_ at the end of their sheers.”

Thomas twitched and pulled his coffee cup close. “Wait… heartbreak? Who… who ends up with their heartbroken?”

Remus ignored Thomas and launched into a dramatic narration. “We left Mr. Lent in the safety of his shop… but even an engraver needs to take a break. You see, he wasn’t well. And his work was doing _nothing_ for his condition…”

+++++

Virgil was a simple man. A simple, hardworking man who dealt with chemicals and shards of silver at a desk for hours on end. He was a simple man whose fingers turned metallic and gray as he toiled, and his lungs ached from the fumes when he was finished. He was a man who was simply becoming sick.

He made do with his spare time. He traveled north, where rumor said the clear air would cure him (it did not). He went south to the sea, where they said the waves and salt would help his aching joints (they didn’t). No, Virgil was not a dying man... but he was growing weary. After a childhood of crowded workhouses and murky alleys... he took pride in his work as an engraver. And he would be sad to lose his standing to a persistent cough and achy elbows.

“This should help the cough at the least. Perhaps a mask over your mouth would help as well?” Logan said as he handed Virgil a new bottle of soothing syrup. Virgil took it and gingerly placed it in his pockets — he was always careful with breakable things; replacements were surely expensive. Logan didn’t notice this. He was looking at his shelf of remedies. “As for your fingers... I’m not sure what else we can do aside from an herbal soak.”

Virgil looked down at his silvery, scarred hands. “I know what you’re going to say, Logan. ‘ _Wear gloves, you simpleton.’_ And you know what I’ll say.”

Logan smiled at his shelves. “‘ _I can’t be as accurate.’”_ He gave Virgil a fond look. “Yes, I know.”

Sitting back, Virgil sighed as he dropped his hands into his lap. “When did we become like this, Logan? When did we grow up and crawl out of the alleys to live like _real men?”_ Logan opened his mouth and Virgil held up a hand. “Not literally. Don’t tell me when I turned eighteen, I already recall it. Vividly.”

A little amused, Logan smiled as he sat across from him. “It was a lively night. Plenty of drinking.”

“ _You_ drank.” Virgil tugged at his collar; the nice clothes of an upper-class worker were stifling. “I sat and watched.”

Logan stared at him for a long while. “You’re troubled,” he finally said, like this concept was new to him. It wasn’t. Virgil was almost always troubled. They had been friends since childhood. Logan knew him too well. “What has you, Virgil?”

“A damn persistent cough, Doctor.”

“Virgil.”

Drumming his fingers, Virgil gave him a thin smile. “You’re too sharp. Can’t you let me be?”

Logan sat back and raised a single eyebrow. “You asked me when we became like this. You breeched the topic; I’m merely following-up.”

“Shit.” Virgil pulled a face. “Well. Curse me for _ever_ speaking, then.”

“ _Virgil_.”

Letting out a laugh — followed by a painful cough — Virgil slapped his knee and nodded. “Fine, fine... I’m troubled.”

“Obviously.”

“Not just by the cough.”

Logan chuckled. “I assumed.”

“It’s...” Virgil skirted around the worst of the subject and settled with, “A client of mine.”

Logan grimaced. “Ah. Yes, the upper crust can be difficult to manage. Very demanding.” Logan straightened his glasses with an irritated flourish. “Perhaps it’s because we’re of lower social status? They think we’re at their beck and call. They think they can simply say a word, and we’ll just appear as they wish.”

Virgil raised his eyebrows. “That... wasn’t at all where I was going with the subject. Do _you_ need to talk? Should I set aside my issues? Let you denounce the fine folk of the city?”

Logan looked away. “No.”

Virgil gave him a smug smile. “Oh? You’re _not_ angry?”

“I didn’t say that. But this isn’t about me.” Logan gestured for him to go on. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

After a moment of staring, Virgil relaxed and crossed his legs at the ankle. “It’s... a client. I’ve grown... rather fond of them.”

Logan openly stared. “You... a client. A...” Logan squirmed. “Is this the same client you were concerned about last week? You’re _still_ thinking of them?”

Virgil remained stone-faced. “You say that like _interest in another person_ is a _bad thing_.”

As if with great urgency, Logan sat forward and put a hand on Virgil’s knee. “Virgil. You are my closest friend. Nearly a brother to me. This... this interest you have. It’s...” he visibly struggled, and Virgil almost pitied him. “You know it isn’t going to unfold in your favor, right? Men like us aren’t part of their marriage-pool.”

Virgil gave Logan’s hand a solid pat. “Logan. This client invites me to their home for the silliest things. The most trivial of engravings. They invite me to see the silverware and to shine the pocket watch chains.”

Logan’s brow furrowed as he thought. “Pocket watch chains? What young lady has a pocket watch—"

“That’s not the _point_ , Logan!” Virgil gripped his wrist and leaned in to speak in conspiratorial tones. “They invite me to their home. They come to my workshop. The client serves tea and we speak for... god, what seems like hours.”

Now Logan sat back and away from him. “The client serves tea. What noblewoman serves her own tea?”

Virgil shrugged. “The kind with no need for a maid.”

“This client is sound more and more _odd_.”

“Again. You’re missing the point,” said Virgil. He folded his silver hands and uncrossed his legs. “I’m fond of this client and... well. They seem to be making plenty of time for me.”

Logan snorted and waved a dismissive hand at that. “The rich always have plenty of time. Handfuls of time. Heaps of it. She doesn’t have to ‘make time’ for you. She already has it. You’re simply an ample distraction for a distract-able young woman.”

Virgil said nothing. It could be true, that Patton didn’t care for him the way he thought. It could be... but the way Patton Moore looked at him. The nervous flutter of his hands and the syrupy sweetness of his smile... was it a distraction? The whimsy of a well-to-do man? Patton had never been deceitful. He’d only been kind. Kind and warm and watching Virgil with those captivated eyes. As if Virgil were some Grand Duke and Patton was an eligible bachelorette vying for his affections.

But they weren’t. They were the opposite of that. Virgil was a common man (a common man with a nice job, but common nonetheless). And Patton was an eligible man from a noble family. Their social circles were worlds apart. Love between two men was blasphemous. There wasn’t supposed to be anything between them. And yet Patton looked at him like he did. They spoke privately and intimately late into the evening, long after Virgil should have tipped his head and said goodnight.

If he was a distraction, then Patton was distracting him in return. And Virgil was loving every moment of it.

While he thought this, Logan seemed to have deflated a bit in his chair, his hands fidgeting at his cuffs before he let out a long breath. “Or… perhaps I was too hasty.” Virgil raised an eyebrow. Logan Stein, admitting he was _wrong_? Pigs must be flying. Logan continued in a slow and uncomfortable manner, “Perhaps this… young lady… truly does wish to spend more time with you. The two of you could have a… future.”

Virgil laughed and shook his head. “You’re lying through your teeth, Logan. I can see your jaw clenching from over here.”

Logan winced and mumbled, “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re a realist, Logan. And so am I. Sometimes, though… it’s nice,” he said with a vague wave of his hand. “To believe that some things might… work in our favor.”

Logan softened at that. “The odds are against us. They always have been.”

“All the more reason to stack the deck, Doctor! You grew up on the same streets I did. Where is your pride? Your tenacity?”

Logan snorted. “ _Tenacity.”_

Virgil grinned wickedly. “Where is the ace hidden up your sleeve, Doctor? I know you didn’t pay your student bills with clean money.”

Giving him a sidelong look, Logan narrowed his eyes and fought a smile. “You’re trying to distract me from your noblewoman,” he said, low and calm. “It won’t work.”

Reaching for his hat, Virgil grinned and stood from his chair. “Thanks for the syrup.”

Logan stood with him, walking him to the door and leaving his hand on the knob as Virgil adjusted his coat. “You’re leaving,” he said. “So soon.”

Virgil cocked his head to the side. “That desperate for me to stay, are you? Maybe you need to find _yourself_ a young noblewoman. I’m sure plenty of your patients would like to keep your company.”

Logan looked uniquely discomforted. “That’s inappropriate.”

Raising an eyebrow, Virgil put on his hat. “Well, _I_ can’t stay. I have work to do.”

“So do I.”

“No need to get defensive,” Virgil said, already anticipating Logan’s slap to his arm. He laughed as he ducked out the door. “You wound me! Aren’t you a man of medicine? Someone should take your license!”

Leaning out the doorway, Logan shook his head and shouted back, “Get out and stay out, you nuisance!”

Virgil spun on dodged a carriage as it crossed the road. The driver tipped his hat and Virgil grinned back at Logan as he waved and gave his goodbye. “Give Mother my love!”

Logan’s reply was routine as always: “She’s better without it!”

As always, Virgil laughed.

+++++

“Hang on, hang on,” Thomas took a sip of water, set his glass aside, and gave Remus a look. “I meant to ask before. So… Logan’s mother raised Virgil, too?”

Remus stared at him. “Really. _That’s_ what has your attention now?”

Dee drummed his fingers on the table. “Maybe people don’t let new children into their families in this day and age.”

Thomas made a face. “Well… people _do_ adopt now. But it’s all regulated and formal with paperwork and background checks… but back then, there wasn’t really paperwork, was there? No real regulations.”

Dee pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “There were… contracts.”

“Contracts,” Thomas repeated.

Remus was oddly quiet as he twisted his mustache. Dee spoke calmly, like the concept was distant to him. “Certain places for abandoned children were a sort of cross between an orphanage and a finishing school. The children are taught chores and household skills and then… well, sold to the families that needed a worker. Usually, these services came cheap and the contracts lasted many years.”

Thomas already knew about these contracts, but the cold, clinical way Dee described them was odd. Almost discomforting. Taking a breath, Thomas sat back in his chair and said, “But Logan’s mother didn’t have a… a _contract_ with Virgil, did she?”

Remus say forward and his chair clattered back onto all four legs. He was done playing balance games, apparently. Now he looked a little icy. “No, she didn’t. She welcomed him in. He needed a mother and she had more than enough love for him.”

Thomas blinked. “How… how old was he? When Logan’s mom took him in?”

Both ghosts went a little hazy and distant. Like they saw something meaningful and bright in the distance beyond the dining room. Dee spoke quietly, sounding oddly subdued as he did.

“He was eleven years old. Logan brought him back to his mother. She didn’t ask questions. She simply welcomed him home.”

Thomas sat back. “That’s… pretty impressive. I mean… she must’ve had a big heart.” There was a knowing pause, and Thomas said, “So why did Logan grow up to be so _distant?”_

“Because,” Dee said knowingly. “A gentleman is polite. A gentleman knows when to keep his distance. A gentleman knows where the limits of propriety lie.”

Remus arched a single, elegant eyebrow and stared at Dee. “A gentleman knows when to strip and ravish his husband.”

Dee spared him a glance. _“Behave,_ dearest.”

Thomas swung them back on track. “ _Any_ way. You were talking about Virgil and Logan?”

Remus perked up, made a face, and then waved his hand dismissively. “I _was_ … but that conversation was over. Logan’s evening ended with him cleaning his clinic and Virgil went back to his shop and worked late. It was hardly interesting after they spoke.”

Again, Thomas asked, “ _How do you know all that?”_

Squinting, Remus tilted his head back and murmured, “How does the wind know which way to go? How does the heart know which man or woman to love? How do the trees know to reach for the sun?” He looked at Thomas and smiled, “How does the knife know to cut flesh and bone?”

“Okay. Cool. Nice and cryptic,” Thomas nodded and stood from the table. “If that’s all you have for me today, I’d like to go back and figure out what do you wrote on my laptop…”

Remus leaned back in his chair again, his eyes stuck on Roman’s landscape painting that hung on the wall. He didn’t speak, he simply rocked his chair back, his mustache twitching as his brow furrowed with thought. Dee, however, wasn’t content to stop there. He stood from the table with Thomas, walking behind Remus and passing a loving hand through his hair before he followed Thomas up the stairs. It would’ve been endearing if Thomas wasn’t being followed by a known torturer.

He reached his office and left the door open… just in case he needed a quick getaway. Dee didn’t grab at him though. Nothing in the room started to fly around in a demonic rage. Dee sat on the bed and waited for Thomas to sit at his desk. He was polite. A gentleman, like he’d said… but impatient. Thomas barely had a chance to put his hands on the keys before Dee was off and running.

“That wasn’t the end of that day,” he promised sternly. Thomas looked at him, and Dee’s eyes flickered with something. Emotion? Compassion? Maybe neither, maybe both. Dee’s lips were set in a firm line, and he said, “I remember when Remus left the house that day. I remember he left with a basket.”

Thomas was already typing. “A basket?”

“Yes,” Dee said, a hint of a smile in his words. “And he took some of our finest honey.”

+++++

Remus liked to crash into the room; it was something that Roman had become well-acquainted with since they were young. He liked to make an impact. He liked to break things or make people shout in alarm. He liked the “scare” factor, and Roman was mostly amused by it. (After a few, tense teenage years of being _irritated_ by it, he’d given into the inevitability of _Remus_.) And, after their parents had passed away, Remus’s antics had become a sort of comfort. He was still wild. He was still flamboyant. He was still _him_.

It was Remus’s special way of saying that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he wouldn’t change, no matter the circumstances. And Roman appreciated that in more ways than one.

So, when his bedroom door swung open and hit the wall, Roman was only startled out of sleep for a moment. It was Remus. It had to be. He settled back into sleep.

“Roman!” Remus snapped, a familiar impatience in his voice. “I’ve come to visit, you sorry excuse for an artist!”

Roman hummed, unable to open his eyes again. Whatever the doctor had given him, it was strong. He felt so _heavy_. The bed dipped when Remus sat down, and Roman hear rustling. Something crackled… a wicker basket? Cracking an eye open, Roman saw Remus produce a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. He knew the smell before it was opened. He smiled and croaked, “ _Biscuits.”_

Remus grinned, his eyes glittering. “Just like Mummy used to make.” Roman went to reach for them but winced when the bandages on his arm pulled. Remus pulled out a single biscuit and placed it on Roman’s chest. “Patton sent a message. He said you were _ill_.”

“Shocking, I know,” Roman croaked. He shifted his left arm so it sat comfortably on the blankets. The cuts still stung, but the pain was duller now. Remus glanced at the bandages and ate a biscuit.

“Hmm… so you were bled, were you? I didn’t know a doctor came.”

Roman reached for the biscuit on his chest. He used his right hand, but it trembled too hard for him to hold the treat. It sat on his chest like a paperweight. He closed his eyes. “I tossed a coin to a group of boys and asked them to find Dr. Stein.”

Remus was gnawing at a biscuit like a gerbil, the crumbs catching in his mustache as he hummed thoughtfully. “Lucky they knew who you meant. They could’ve just wandered off.”

“Thought about that for a moment,” Roman whispered, hardly able to keep his mouth moving. “They would’ve… gotten a free shilling.”

Remus hummed and pulled out a jar. There, he pulled off the lid, dripped plenty of honey onto a biscuit, and started to crunch again. “So,” he said after he swallowed. “Your handsome doctor came to play. Did he need you to strip?”

Roman glowered at him as best he could. “ _Remus.”_

“I’m asking for curiosity’s sake.”

Roman saw the honey, reached for it, and Remus leaned away. Roman grunted. “ _Remus_. If you brought the biscuits to share, then you should share the honey, too.”

Giving him an unimpressed look, Remus popped an entire biscuit into his mouth. “Whoever said I was going to _share_ with you?”

Roman pouted a bit… then sighed. “Dr. Stein sat with me a while. He gave me some medicine.”

“Good, good.” Remus sucked honey off his fingers and glanced at Roman. “And you’re feeling better?”

Roman blinked slowly. He felt _somewhat_ better. But there was still an ache deep in his chest… he wasn’t sure if that was from the fever, or from Dr. Stein. “I wished I could’ve spoken to him more. Under all that bluster, I can tell… there’s a good heart in him. A kindness.”

Remus snorted and poured honey onto a biscuit. “ _Bluster_. That man is so _easy_ to read, Roman. Can’t you see it?”

Roman stared at him, his mind coming up blank. See what? What did he mean? Was there something to Logan he didn’t know? Had Logan been pushing him away this whole time and Roman was too enamored to notice? A little anxious, Roman shifted where he lay and said, “No, I can’t… what am I supposed to see when I look at him?”

Remus glanced at him. “Lovesick _fool_.”

Roman glared. “Mummy says not to call names.”

“Mummy isn’t _here_ ,” Remus said with a snicker. Then, he paused. Something sunk in. The reality of their situation. Sometimes it was easy to forget, even if their parents had died _years_ ago. Quietly, Remus poured honey on a biscuit and held it to Roman’s lips. “I will share. _One_.”

Roman took the biscuit and ate it as fast as he could so the honey didn’t drip, but Remus was always overzealous when it came to sweets, and there was _far_ too much honey. He laughed and sputtered when honey spilled over his lips, and Remus laughed with him. It was like they were children again, sneaking extra bites and stealing a spoonful of honey. There, in that moment, neither of them was sick. It was springtime in their youth. Mother and Father were in the kitchen doorway. Remus licked honey from his fingers. Roman laughed and reached for another biscuit.

For a moment, it was like _nothing_ had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, springtime. Things are getting warm and cozy!
> 
> See you next chapter!  
> I'm on Tumblr @misplaced-my-notes


	5. A Night to Remember

Remus took a long, long drag from his pipe… and let the smoke go in a large, unorganized cloud. The sensation sizzled through his lungs and prickled over his skin as he sighed happily. He was laying in Dee’s lap, spread out across the lounge like a blanket thrown haphazardly over the cushions. He held up his pipe, let Dee take a sip of the opium, and laughed when Dee blew smoke rings for him. After he’d taken the pipe back and chewed on the tip for a bit, Remus sighed.

“I feel like cotton.”

Dee turned a page in his book. Downstairs, a lecherous banker (one who had admitted to selling his own wife) wailed. Neither man moved. “Cotton, you say?”

Remus blinked slowly and puffed another lungful of opium. “It’s different from orgasm.”

Another shriek. Dee crossed his ankles. “Oh?”

“Softer. Less like needles on the skin.” He paused, then looked up at Dee with stars in his eyes. “This is like silk. Orgasms are like ice water. But warm.”

It made no sense… but it made _complete_ sense. Dee smiled and pet his hair. “Fascinating.”

Remus rolled until he was laying on his stomach, his arms crossed over Dee’s thighs as he grumbled, “You know what I want?”

“No.” Dee looked up, waited… and heard another cry. He turned back to his book, satisfied. “What do you want, darling?”

“A _party_ ,” Remus said as he chewed on the end of his pipe. It hurt his teeth, scraping against the enamel as he said, “We need a _party_ to liven things up. Springtime is too _quiet_.”

Dee smiled. “An _excellent_ suggestion, darling. You’re right. Always right. The greatest choice I’ve made in my life.”

+++++

“Excuse me,” Dee interrupted crossly. Remus gave him an innocent look, and Dee glowered at him. “That is not at _all_ what I said.”

Remus batted his eyelashes. “But wouldn’t it be wonderful if that’s what you _did_ say? Tell me I’m handsome and perfect and I’ll regale you with poetry about your--”

“If you’re _going to tell the story_ ,” Dee interrupted again, “Then tell it _properly_.”

Thomas sat between them, a bit tense as he erased the last few lines of dialogue. “So… what _did_ you say?”

Remus opened his mouth and Dee held up a hand to stop him. “Allow me to take over, Thomas. I _said_ …”

+++++

“What do you want, darling?”

“A _party_ ,” Remus said as he chewed on the end of his pipe. It hurt his teeth, scraping against the enamel as he said, “We need a _party_ to liven things up. Springtime is too _quiet_.”

Dee made a face. “And a party is your solution? If you want _fun_ , you should go to a pub. If you want to _liven things up_ , come to bed with me. If you want _chaos_ , I’ll set you loose on my debtors.” On cue, the banker in the basement cried out. Dee frowned; that man was only there because he stole from Dame Elizabeth Lane… poor old woman didn’t even know she was destitute until Dee returned her money. Apparently, the banker had been embezzling from his clients for years, hence the solitary confinement in the basement. Dee took a breath and sighed. “A _party_ would be a nuisance.”

Remus continued to chew on his pipe. “Sex with you is _fun_ but I’m not sure I’d invite my brother to that particular event.”

Dee made another face and set his book aside. “What on earth does _Roman_ have to do with this?”

“He’s going stir-crazy in his little studio.” Remus moaned dramatically. “Rambling on and on about his _doctor_.”

Dee had to loop an arm around Remus’s middle to keep him from rolling off his lap. “What was his name? Dr. Stern?”

Remus looked at him through a haze of opium smoke. “Don’t play dumb, Dee. You already know the doctor’s deep dark secrets, don’t you?”

“Don’t be silly,” Dee said softly. But he did. He knew Dr. Stein’s name, address, the contents of his bank account and his criminal record (which was spotless, aside from an aggression charge when he was younger). He knew where he studied, who his parents were, and every client he’d ever had. Dee knew _everything_ about Dr. Stein. He had to. His brother-in-law was in the doctor’s care, after all. And if Roman was ever hurt, Remus would be upset. And that just wouldn’t do _._ Dee tangled his fingers in Remus’s hair and gave a playful tug. He lied with a smile. “I hardly know anything about Dr. Stein.”

“You’re a liar,” Remus announced with a grin. “A _bad_ liar. You know everything with your shadow-puppets and money.”

When the opium pipe was offered again, Dee took another drag and blew a few smoke rings. Remus smiled hazily at them. The opium was starting to get to Dee, soaking into his blood and making him a little cotton-headed himself. He sighed. “So. You want a party. To distract your brother from the doctor?”

“Maybe,” Remus said, his feet kicking at the arm of the lounge. “Maybe not. They need an excuse to get sloppy. Make their move. Roman is too _subtle._ ”

Dee twitched. “You and I were lucky to have found one another. Not every man is… _inclined_ the way we are. This doctor… he might not feel the same.”

Remus snorted and turned over so he could nuzzle his face into Dee’s stomach. “Don’t be stupid. If you’d seen the way he _looked_ at Roman, you’d know he was ‘ _inclined_.’ God, it looked like he wanted to unzip Roman’s skin and crawl inside with him.”

Dee looked into the distance. “That… is a colorful image.”

Remus reached up to pull at Dee’s cravat. “So. A party.”

“Here?” Dee asked, the question punctuated with a horrified scream from the basement. Both men paused, considered, and Dee said, “Why don’t you garner an invitation to one, hmm? Plenty of those to go around in spring.”

Remus smiled again. “It’s when all the eligible men are put out to stud.”

“I hope you’re referring to me.”

“I am,” Remus grinned and tugged at the button on the front of Dee’s trousers. “You were _quite_ the stud.”

Dee calmly took the hand away from his trousers. “The _party_ , dearest. You want a _party_.”

Remus paused for a moment, like he’d forgotten what he wanted, and then took another drag from his pipe. “You know what I want?”

Dee raised an eyebrow. “A party?” Remus shook his head. “Sex?” That earned a laugh, but Remus shook his head again. “Then I’m stumped. What do you want?”

Remus let his pipe fall from his hand. It hit the polished floors and ash skittered across the wood. A heavy sigh, and Remus murmured, “I want Roman to be happy. Ever since Mother and Father passed… nothing I do can make him smile again. _Really_ smile. Not even when we paint together. Not even when we sing.”

Dee pet his hair. “Your brother loves you, Remus. And you _do_ make him happy.”

“I love him,” Remus sighed. “And I hate him. Ah, the pangs of being a sibling.”

With a smile, Dee cocked his head to the side. “Why do you hate him?”

“He’s too subtle,” Remus growled. “Too _discreet_. How is this damn doctor supposed to _realize_ when Roman is being so damn _wishy-washy_?”

Dee pursed his lips. “I don’t think your brother should be blamed for Dr. Stein being inept.”

“You remember how I spoke to you when we first met?” Remus grinned. Dee raised an eyebrow. “I was bold. Brazen.”

“I remember you putting your hand down the front of my trousers in the gardens.”

“Ah,” Remus sighed, like it was a fond, wholesome memory. “Our first time was in the garden.”

Dee rolled his eyes. “Come back, Remus. You’re drifting.”

“Was I?” Remus blinked hard, fanned at some of the opium smoke that hung in the air, and mumbled, “What was I saying?”

“Your brother is subtle.”

Without warning, Remus sat up and shouted, “Andréa!” Dee winced and held a hand to his ear. Thankfully, he could still hear. Furthermore, Remus using his name was an odd occurrence. It normally only happened when he was being oddly serious… or amorous. Remus pivoted, crawling into Dee’s lap so he could straddle him and look into his eyes. _“Andréa.”_

Dee put his hands on Remus’s hips, holding him steady. “You have my attention.”

“Nathaniel Blade is hosting a party for spring. Something about his niece becoming a lady or some nonsense.” Dee nodded slowly, unsure of where this was going. “You and your wife have been invited.”

“Ah,” Dee said stiffly. “Will you be coming _as my wife_ , or will you be yourself?”

“Me. Of course I’ll come as _me._ It’s more mysterious if Miss Dee isn’t present. And… if I can be…” Remus growled the word, “ _Subtle_ … I could get an invitation for Roman, couldn’t I? And maybe one for that doctor of his...”

Dee frowned. “So that’s what you’re trying to get, hmm?”

Remus grinned. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to watch the common-man doctor in a party of elites? Watch him squirm like a worm on a hook.”

Dee smiled. “You’re cruel.”

Remus opened his mouth to talk back, but the banker in the basement howled before he could reply. For moment, both men were quiet, listening to the echoing, warbling cry before Remus pursed his lips, curled his mustache, and said, “ _Which_ of us… is _cruel?”_

+++++

Remus arrived at the apartment in a flurry, waltzing through the door without knocking and startling Patton where he’d been sitting in the living room. A journal tumbled from his hands as he stood and stared.

“Remus!” His voice was high and caught in his throat. He was always like that around Remus. So unsure of himself. Remus didn’t mind it. He took off his coat and hung it on the wrack… then glanced back at Patton. He was picking up his journal and closing it. Remus saw the lines in it… a bank book, it would seem. He grinned.

“Trouble with your finances, Mr. Moore?”

Obviously flustered, Patton shook his head and wrung his hands. “No! No. No, I’m… it’s—”

“I know a banker. Lovely man. _Excellent_ shag. Goes by the name of Mister Dee. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

Patton blinked. “I—”

“He could help with your _issue_. What is it? Do you have a sneaky side to you, Mr. Moore?” Remus walked toward him slowly, like an animal on the prowl. Patton backed away, clearly alarmed. Remus knew a lot about Dee’s work. He knew what a man looked like when he was feeling guilty. It was strange, though… Patton had always been such a Golden Boy. He’d never done anything wrong. But, then again, that’s what liars always wanted people to think. “Embezzling from your family’s business, Mr. Moore? Stealing from the rich and giving to this… _engraver_ that I’ve heard so much about? Does he know where the dirty money comes from?”

Patton stopped, blinked, and then looked _utterly_ confused. “I don’t… what? No.”

Remus stopped advancing and deflated. _“No?”_

“I finance an orphanage,” Patton said softly. “And with the money from the company being split between my mother, sister, and I… things are a bit tight this month with donations. I gave… a bit too much. Now I—”

“Ah.” Remus reached into his pocket. “Boring. Anyway! This is for you.” He thrust out two invitations and wiggled them until Patton took them. He looked at them, made a face, and then looked up at Remus. Remus smiled and curled his mustache. “Bring that lanky man I hear so much about. Now. Roman is…?”

“Upstairs,” Patton said, his face glowing a bright red as he looked down at the invitation. “He’s… upstairs as always.”

Remus looked up at Roman’s door and grinned wildly. “Excellent.”

Upstairs, Logan was sitting on Roman’s bed with him, listening to his lungs. The sun was out that afternoon, shining into the room with warmth that made the rain steam sadly on the horizon. It was unusual for that time of year in England, but Logan wasn’t bothered by it. The less it rained, the easier it was to traverse the city. And, in turn, it made it _much_ easier to walk to Roman Kingsley’s apartment to assess his health once a week.

Sometimes Roman called for him. Other times, Logan came because it had become something of a bad habit. Seeing Roman was becoming routine; the visits were simple, relaxed, and the easiest that Logan had to do. Roman Kingsley, despite his flare for flowery words, was a kind individual. It was almost irritating. Logan couldn’t even be angry that he was with him.

Logan held his stethoscope steady as he listened to Roman’s lungs. The sun filtered through the dust in the air, but Roman didn’t even sniffle. He’d been well for nearly two weeks. Apparently, it was _very_ unusual for him.

“I think it’s _you_ ,” Roman said unprompted. Logan glanced at him, folded his stethoscope into his bag, and raised an eyebrow. Roman grinned. “You’re coming to see me so often I think you _frighten_ the illnesses away.”

Logan took a breath and took out his pocket watch. “If only it were that _simple_ , Mr. Kingsley. Your wrist, please.”

Roman offered his arm and Logan felt for his pulse. Then, they were quiet. A companionable kind of silence that was relaxing. Noblewomen liked to chatter while Logan worked (“If you’re sick, how can you _talk_ so much?”) and other noblemen liked to scold him for shoddy practices (“ _I_ am the one who studied in Edinburgh, aren’t I?”) But Roman… Roman liked to watch him. Perhaps it was because he was an artist. Maybe it was because he was simply curious. Either way, he was quiet, and Logan listened to his pulse flutter under his skin. It was peaceful.

But not for long.

The door slammed open without warning, and with it came Remus’ boisterous proclamation: “I have learned the art of subtlety!”

Logan, a good doctor in all meanings of the word, chose to ignore this as he held Roman’s wrist. He counted quietly in his head, eyeing his pocket-watch studiously. His patient, however, was amused by his brother’s antics. 

“And _such a demonstration,”_ Roman said sarcastically. “What’s on, then? Any reason for the learning?”

“Dee has given me lessons on the art for this.” Remus grinned, stepping over Logan’s bag and producing an envelope from his breast pocket. “I have _subtly_ urged Nathaniel Blade to invite you to his little party on Saturday. _Subtly_ , mind you.” Logan noticed the interested twinkle in Roman’s eye as he twisted and reached for the envelope, only for Remus to snatch it back. “ _But!_ You must know that our good Master Blade is going to try to set his lovely niece on you.”

“Ah,” Roman grumbled. “Patricia.”

“Yes! _Patricia!”_ Remus took long, purposeful strides around the room, like he was regaling them with an important story while Logan _clicked_ this pocket-watch shut and went reaching for his bag. Really, the affairs of nobles were of no interest to him. The health of his patients was the only thing he cared for. That, and his mother. His heart had precious little room left for frivolity, but Remus was exuberant and too loud to ignore. “ _Patricia Evelyn Blade! Lovely of face, feature, and form! Lonely of word, empty of eyes, blackest of hearts…”_ he pivoted to look at Roman. “How am I?”

Roman lifted a hand and waved it to and fro. “Fair, I suppose. It’s accurate.”

Remus growled and tossed the invitation across the room. “It’s no fun if it’s _accurate_. It needs to be wild and provocative!”

“Believe you me,” Roman muttered under his breath, mostly to Logan. “Patricia is provocative enough.”

Logan gave him a dark look before snapping his bag shut. “I’ll take my leave, Mr. Kingsley.”

“No, don’t!” Roman cried as he reached for Logan’s sleeve and held fast. His eyes were wide and fearful, though Logan knew it was all a farce to keep him there. “If you leave now, he won’t stop composing horrible poetry of Patricia.”

“I’m going to do that whether or not he leaves,” Remus said haughtily. Across the room, he threw his hands into the air. “ _A blade on the edge of a primrose petal, silken and searching for blood. Green as the bile in the back of her throat, sweetened by sugar on the tongue. The blood is on her bosom and the flesh is between her teeth!_ ” He turned back to Roman. “How am I now?”

Roman glanced at Logan. “Provocative.”

“Excellent!” Remus clapped his hands and put them on his hips. “Say you’ll come, hmm? A party would do you good.”

Logan twitched; a party would do Roman _very little good_. He was frail and there were going to be all manners of people at this party; would the air be too warm? Would the liquor be too strong? Would the food be cooked well? Cigars or a cold chill could upset Roman’s lungs. If it were up to Logan, he’d put Roman Kingsley into a safe little box and tuck him into the pantry for safe keeping.

“What say you, Doctor?”

Logan startled, looking to Roman oddly. What was he playing at? Was he looking for Logan’s opinion? No matter what Logan told him, no matter what _anyone_ told him, Roman was going to do whatever he pleased. So why ask? Why did he care? “I… pardon?”

Roman put his hands in his lap primly. “Well. I couldn’t _possibly_ go against the orders of my good doctor. So tell me… will I be well enough for the party?”

“Of course you will!” Remus said with a wicked grin. He stepped forward to clap Logan on the shoulder, his hand gripping a little too tight as he said, “Tell him he’ll be _fine_. He needs to get _out_.”

Roman grimaced. “Patricia Blade will be the death of me.”

“Staying in this _room_ will be the death of you!” Remus shouted, his voice grating at the edge of the words. Logan leaned away from the verbal onslaught, but Roman merely looked up at his brother with tired eyes.

Logan sighed; so _that_ was what Roman was after. He wanted doctor-mandated bedrest to avoid this _Patricia_. Whoever that was. Clearly, his brother was worried about him. Clearly, Roman simply wanted to sit in his room and paint… though a party _had_ intrigued Roman. Rubbing his brow tiredly, Logan huffed. This was _not_ his responsibility. He shouldn’t be playing Nanny to a successful painter. Roman Kingsley could (despite all evidence to the contrary) take care of himself. If a woman was vying for his affections, let him dismiss her himself. Hiding behind a doctor to avoid her… it was cowardly at best. Suspect at worst. Logan needed no hand in that.

So Logan picked up his bag, smoothed his vest, and gave Roman a hard, dismissive look.

“You are _well_ , Mr. Kingsley. Feel free to attend your…” he waved his hand flippantly as he grumbled, “ _Party.”_

“Aha!” Remus slapped Logan on the back hard enough for him to stumble. “The good doctor is on my side! See that, Roman? _Rationality_. He says you’re fine, so you’re fine, so let’s _go!_ It’ll be loads of fun. Drinking, dancing, maybe stealing a few of Douglas’ prized cigars—"

Logan didn’t stay to listen to the rest. He excused himself without a word, pulling the door shut behind him. At the base of the stairs, Patton was inspecting a pocket watch that fit in the palm of his hand. He brushed his fingers over the smooth, silver backing. It was engraved. Logan grit his teeth and stepped around him. There was so much _frivolity_ happening around him. Fine China, elegant silverware that was engraved at the base, ornate candlesticks… and what was Logan doing? He was attending to a frail, entitled painter who didn’t want to attend an expensive party. It was ridiculous. It was a waste of his time and talents. And yet.

_And yet._

“I’ll be in my office this evening if you should need me again, Mr. Moore,” he said as he took his coat from the rack. As if he was too caught up in the little parcel in his hand, Patton paused, looked up and finally smiled.

“Everything all right?” He asked, polite and curious as to Roman’s condition.

Logan frowned and pulled his arms through his sleeves. “He’s fine. _Dramatic._ But fine, all the same. Should he attend Mister Blades’ party on Saturday, remind him to wear a scarf and heavy coat.”

“Will do,” Patton said brightly as he tucked the watch into his pocket and sighed, “Oh, it’s been so long since he’s gone out! It’ll be good for him.”

What Roman Kingsley did with his time was none of his concern. How he spent his evenings (with whom or without) was none of his business. Even so, he felt oddly prickly under his collar. Miss Patricia Blade… was she wealthy? Probably. She was obviously beautiful… and yet, Roman didn’t seem to like her. It curious. But it was also frustrating.

_Why_ was it frustrating?

“Pardon me,” Logan’s mouth said without his brains’ permission. “You wouldn’t happen to know a Patricia Blade, would you?”

Patton paused, his brow furrowed, and he said. “Patricia… oh! Nathaniel’s niece? Lovely girl. I hear she swoons whenever Roman is in the room!” He laughed a little. “Really, I know _of_ her… but not much else.” His head cocked to the side, innocent and curious. “Why?”

“No reason at all really,” Logan lied, unsure if he was lying to Patton or himself. He smoothed his coat, took up his bag, and gave Patton a polite nod. “Expect my bill in the post. Good afternoon, Mr. Moore.”

Patton nodded in return. “Doctor Stein.”

With that, Logan left, his fingers itching for his pipe and a good book. Perhaps that would distract him. Perhaps it would only make things worse. He wasn’t quite sure what was troubling him so much. He only wanted to extract himself from that damn flat and go far, _far_ away from Roman Kingsley so they could go about their separate lives. They were so very _different_. It was ridiculous to think that Roman would rather spend his Saturday sharing his unpublished poetry with Logan (as he’s been known to do when Logan is without other patients.)

Logan stopped mid-step at the edge of the street, his hand gripping the handle of his bag tight as he caught his breath; was he… _jealous_ of a rich man’s life? Not of the luxury, no… but the freedom he experienced to go to parties whenever he wished? No, that wasn’t it… he was jealous that Roman was going off and about with _someone_ _else._ Roman didn’t _need_ to entertain him. He had other high-society friends to lounge with and serenade on a whim. Logan swallowed thickly. This was ridiculous. To be so entirely wrapped-up in one man… to _crave_ his attention and company like this? He must have a fever. He had to go home and rest.

Really, he needed to stop thinking of Roman Kingsley… but he didn’t get far.

“Stein!” A familiar, unruly voice called to him. Logan halted, pivoted, and saw Remus Kingsley racing for him like a madman. If not for his already impressive social standing, this display might’ve been a blemish on his reputation. But he was Remus Kingsley. Everyone who was _anyone_ knew that he was unusual. Apparently, that included him running through the street shouting and waving his arms. “Wait! I have something for you!”

Logan frowned. What could he possibly give Logan? He was never the one to pay Logan for his weekly visits to Roman and he’d never requested a visitation from him. Remus, more than anything, had always treated Logan like a conspiratorial bug to be crushed under a very shiny, very expensive boot-heel. And now as he looked at Logan and smiled, he looked like a predator. And Logan was caught.

With a flourish, Remus produced an envelope. His eyes were glittering dangerously behind that smile, and he reached up to curl the end of his well-trimmed mustache. “For _you_ , Dr. Stein. Apparently, you’re _very_ popular with the ladies that attend these parties.”

Logan delicately took the envelope, his gaze catching on his name _‘Doctor Logan Stein’_ written in looping, delicate script. An invitation. An invitation to a _rich man’s_ party… Logan fought the urge to throw it on the ground. Instead, he looked at Remus and carefully removed all emotion from his face as he said, “Is this some kind of joke, Mr. Kingsley?”

Remus’s eyebrows raised and his smile widened. “ _Dr. Stein_ … if I wanted to play a joke, there would be blood involved.”

Logan maintained a calm demeanor. He could handle Remus’s antics. After a few meetings, it was easy to see that Remus _thrived_ off reactions and drama. Without it, he was forced to speak his mind. So, Logan blinked slowly and held the invitation between his thumb and forefinger, waving it flippantly as he said, “I find it unlikely that Mr. Blade would _appreciate_ a man of my status attending his party.”

Remus’s eye twitched. His smile was beginning to fall. “That invitation is made out to _you,_ Doctor. Nathaniel Blade _himself_ is extending the invitation.”

“I find that difficult to believe, Mr. Kingsley. Mr. Blade and I have never met.”

Remus was visibly displeased with this reaction. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Mr. Kingsley,” Logan said stiffly. “Though I appreciate your offer—”

“You know,” Remus interrupted, his eyes narrowed and smile dangerous. “A gentleman doesn’t refuse an invitation to a party. Especially not when someone has been so elegantly _subtle_ to obtain it for him.”

There were many ways to deal with this information. Logan could insist that he didn’t want to attend. He could say that he was a busy man, a doctor with _patients all over the city_ … surely, one of them would need him on Saturday. However, another part of him was tugging in the opposite direction. He could attend this party… it was a gentleman’s duty to go, after all. Especially when the invitation was earned _for_ him. If he attended, he could see this Patricia Blade that frightened Roman so much.

These were all terrible excuses. And yet, Logan took the invitation and tucked it into his coat.

“Thank you, Mr. Kingsley,” he said stiffly. Remus beamed, and it was looking at a blackened sun.

“You’ll attend!” It wasn’t a question. More of a victorious announcement as Remus clapped him on the shoulder and nodded. “As you _should_. You’ll have a marvelous time, Dr. Stein. A _marvelous_ time.”

Logan wasn’t able to respond before Remus was twisting and sauntering away. It left Logan with his bag feeling heavier than before. Heavy with the invitation and the responsibility that it implied. He had never gone to a party thrown by nobility. He had never attempted to be part of that scene. He knew his manners, of course. He knew how to _behave_. But he didn’t want to go out of his way to attend.

But now he had agreed, and he had no choice. He _had_ to go to the party. He _had_ to stand among the wealthy elite. At least they would have good alcohol. That was a small comfort. Because, after all, Patricia Blade would be there. That meant that Roman’s time would be monopolized by the young woman… and Logan wouldn’t have a moment alone with him. Not that Logan _needed_ a moment alone… oh, he wasn’t fooling anyone. Least of all himself.

Roman was soothing, in some ways. A daydreaming kind of warmth settled in the air when spending time with Roman. He was bright and exciting like sunlight on a cloudy day. He sparkled and bubbled like champagne. And he smiled in a way that made things seem _gentler._

Frowning, Logan squared his shoulders and started back toward his office. He would sit and smoke his pipe for several hours, that night. He would mull the ramifications of _not_ attending the party. He would consider what would happen if he went and saw no one that he knew. He thought about all the instances of awkward conversation and unnecessary pleasantries. It all came to a head around midnight, and Logan resigned himself to going to the party.

What convinced him to attend?

The fact that _finally_ , he would see Roman Kingsley dressed up in the manner of a nobleman, rather than a sloppily dressed painter. _That_ , Logan assured himself _,_ would be a sight worthy of a party.

+++++

“So,” Thomas sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. It was getting late (early) and Remus had been monologuing for a good half the night. “You _guilted_ Logan into attending this party?”

Remus wrinkled his nose as he lay delicately draped across Thomas’s bed. “ _Guilt_ is such an _ugly_ word.”

Dee spoke up. “Yes, he did.”

Remus sat up and glared. “ _Andréa!”_ He hissed, angry and betrayed.

Still, Dee repeated: “He did.” With a steady hand, Thomas saved the document and looked out the window. The sun was rising. Dee noticed this, and he sounded a little amused as he said, “For whom the bell tolls… is it time for bed, young man?”

Thomas sighed and pushed away from his desk. Remus begrudgingly lifted himself from the bed, walking over to where Dee had settled himself in the corner. After turning the blinds and blocking out the sunlight, Thomas laid down and pulled the blankets over himself. “If you guys keep this up, I’m going to become nocturnal.”

There was no answer. Remus and Dee were already gone.

+++++

“A _party_ , Logan? The two of us? At a _party_.” Virgil slapped his knee and sat back with a grave expression. “I think they’re trying to kill us. We _must_ be part of some… ritual sacrifice.”

Logan glanced up from where he was sorting vials on the shelf of his medicine cabinet. “That sounds messy.” He paused, then looked at Virgil. “You said your _client_ gave you the invitation? Is this the same girl that could keep bringing up when you visit me?”

Virgil narrowed his eyes. “So what if it is.”

“ _So what_ ,” Logan repeated irritably. He folded his arms over his chest and gave Virgil a stern look. “Virgil. This lady… I understand you _fancy_ her, but… you know it’s not going anywhere, right? This party isn’t going to _change_ anything. I bet you _anything_ she’s extending the invitation as a way to rebel against her father.”

Virgil stared at him. “What is it with you and your pessimism? And that _means something_ coming from _me_.” Logan rolled his eyes and Virgil coughed a bit before he said, “It’s true. I’m normally the one to point out how things can go wrong. And I _hate_ social gatherings… but if _this particular client_ gave me the invitation… I’m inclined to go.”

_“Inclined_ ,” Logan echoed again. He couldn’t exactly fight Virgil on this; he had accepted his own invitation. Now they were both going to a party when _neither_ of them liked to be part of a crowd. Logan huffed. “I’ll have to get out my nice coat.”

“At least you _have_ a nice coat.”

Logan glanced at him. “You keep wearing that old, ratty one. I keep telling you to buy a new greatcoat…”

Virgil looked over to where his coat was hanging… and he smiled fondly. “Can’t. Mother gave me that one.”

Logan remembered that day. They were fourteen at the time… and Virgil had been shivering in the winter air as he went out for his daily delivery job. Logan had been studying at the time, but he remembered his mother going to the closet and pulling out an old greatcoat. His father’s greatcoat. Logan hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but when that coat was wrapped around Virgil’s shoulders, it _meant_ something. He was given a precious item from their family.

And Virgil had been wearing it ever since.

It was getting plenty worn from years of use, and the black had faded to a deep gray. Inside, there were patches that had been stitched by Logan himself. And Virgil didn’t get rid of the damn thing. Logan had never felt jealous that Virgil had the coat. In perfect honesty, he didn’t remember his father very well. But it meant something to Virgil, and that was more than enough.

Even so, Logan made a face and looked at Virgil over the rims of his glasses. “And your lady client thinks you’re a catch when you wear _that_?”

Virgil stood up, threw on his coat and said, “ _God_ , I hope so.” He took his teacup and knocked back the last of his tea before he went for the door. “Give Mother my love.”

Logan lingered in the doorway as he muttered, “She’s better off without it.”

On the doorstep, Virgil gave him a knowing look. “Don’t make that face. If I have to go the party, _so do you_.”

“I dislike conditionals.”

Virgil snorted and started off into traffic, a tall, tall figure among the crowd as he shouted over his shoulder, “Then you shouldn’t have accepted the damn thing. See you on Saturday!”

“I’ll be there,” Logan grumbled crossly. “Whether I want to or not.”

+++++

Logan Stein was raised to be a gentleman. He’d had some rough-patches in his youth (growing up in the gutters of low-town London would do that to a child) but his mother valued manners above all else. He was polite and said ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ He offered his arm to young ladies when they had to cross over a puddle in the street. He held himself high and was gracious in the face of adversity.

He was not, however, a fan of parties.

Say what you will, but parties were _not_ required to make a man a gentleman. Logan knew how to dance. He could drink expensive brandy without making a fool of himself. He could speak plainly with people of nobility… but put him in a room _full_ of those people, and Logan floundered. In Nathaniel Blade’s home, Logan found himself grinding his teeth at the sight of vaulted ceilings and enormous dining rooms. The main hall was set up as a ballroom and was filled with mingling people; women wore their new, glittering spring gowns while men flaunted new evening coats and vests. It was like watching birds trying to mate, all fluttering hands and glittering jewels as they fought to get the attention of the greatest, richest person they could find.

And Logan was stuck on the side of it, clinging to the walls as if they could save him. He tried not to glare, but with the way certain men looked at him, he was trying and failing. Why did he accept this invitation? Why did he come to a party that he had _no business_ attending? Because he was a gentleman, of course. And a gentleman doesn’t decline a request for petty reasons. 

(The petty reasons being: “No, I don’t care for you and your lot in life, please refrain from extending these invitations in the future, thank you.”)

He had a glass of scotch in his hand and he was mulling whether he wanted to drink it. It might make him relax and make the party more tolerable… it might also ruin his reputation as a doctor with a calm demeanor. Alcohol went both ways, of course. So, it simply sat in his hand like a souvenir of the trays being walked around the room. Logan watched the crowds for a familiar sight. No, he was _not_ looking for Roman Kingsley, that would be preposterous. He was not looking for a smile that glowed like firelight or hair that curled elegantly over his brow. He refused to _look_ for him… but if he happened to spot him, that would be a lucky coincidence.

He also found himself searching for this _Patricia_ that Roman feared so much. Logan blinked; if Patricia _was_ indeed at the party, surely, she’d already found Roman. They were probably off in the gardens below, arm in arm while Roman recited poetry to her. Logan grimaced and several people near him backed away. Patricia Blade would _love_ to hear Roman’s poetry. From everything Logan heard, Roman’s poetry was the very epitome of romance and compassion. They were probably necking in the closets while Roman promised her a ring. 

That should _not_ make Logan as irritated as it did. And yet he sat and stewed on the side of the party, struggling to find anything to distract himself from the unsavory aspect of Roman skipping stones with a young woman. 

Before he could walk out to the balcony and throw himself off to avoid overthinking, Logan saw a familiar, willowy figure slinking along the wall. He smiled; Virgil was out of place, too. He came up to Logan and leaned against the wall; _very_ ungentlemanly. Mother would’ve scolded him. Virgil crossed his arms over his chest.

“Did you see that one woman?” He asked without a ‘good evening’ or ‘nice to see you, Logan.’ Logan raised an eyebrow, trying to spot the woman he meant. Virgil gestured vaguely and it was no help. “She was covered in so much tinsel, you’d think it was still Christmas time.”

Logan frowned and sniffed his scotch. It made his eyes water. “I could make do with Christmas.”

Virgil looked at him. “Because everyone gets sick at Christmas time?”

Logan smiled. “And they don’t go to parties when they’re ill. What a wonderful time of year.”

Virgil shook his head with a fond smile. “You are the _definition_ of a _dull_ person. Might as well go around yelling ‘boo, all you merry-makers!’ in your spare time.”

“That sounds like a better use of my time than _this,_ ” Logan gestured to the party. With one last glance at his scotch, Logan sighed. He knocked it back in one drink and set it on a tray that had been revolving on the shoulder of a butler for the past ten minutes. Virgil glanced at him and Logan said in a hoarse voice, “Damn good scotch.”

Virgil reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sandwich. Those had also been making the rounds in the party on gleaming silver trays. Logan raised an eyebrow as Virgil popped the sandwich into his mouth and mumbled, “ _Damn good food._ ”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, _Mum_.” Virgil chewed and swallowed… then frowned. “I lied. It’s like eating dust. How can these people be _so rich_ and eat _dirt?”_

Logan took another drink from a passing tray. Not brandy this time. He gave it a suspicious sniff before sighing. “It’s all in the _posturing_ , Virgil. As long as it _looks_ pretty, the taste doesn’t matter.”

Virgil ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth. “Like their personalities.”

“Like their parties,” Logan added. Both men nodded gravely as Logan drank his liquor. It almost tasted like starshine. Champagne? Logan set the flute on a revolving tray as a butler scuttled past. “How long is it socially acceptable to linger on the sidelines of a spring gathering?”

Virgil blinked and watched the crowds. “Dunno. Don’t care.”

“Your accent is slipping.”

Virgil glanced at him, frowned, and said, “I don’t _know_ , Dr. Stein.” Each word was cut with a crisp, London accent. Logan smiled at how misplaced it sounded coming from Virgil. “Mayhaps we should dally on over to the balcony, hmm? Tip me over like a teapot. That’ll be _jolly good_ fun.”

“Tempting,” Logan nodded with a barely smothered smile. Next to him, Virgil slouched a little harder, like he was making a point. Logan sighed. “This is going to be a _long_ night, isn’t it?”

Virgil hummed and slipped back into his normal accent. “Maybe. It’ll be busy for _you_. See all these women? I bet _a crown_ that at least three will ‘faint’ so you come to rouse them like some…” he waved his hand awkwardly. “Bloody hero or something.”

Maybe Logan was bored, or maybe it was the liquor, but either way, Logan pursed his lips. “A crown?” He reached for another tray and took a new drink. Wine, this time. He despised red, but he’d drink it anyway. He sipped at it, puckered his lips, and said, “I’ll take that bet. Three women?”

“Three _at least_.”

“Well. I bet that there won’t be more than three.” Virgil hummed… then nodded. Logan reached over to shake Virgil’s hand. “You’ve got a wager, old friend.”

On cue, there was a chorus of gasps as a woman tipped and slowly crumbled in the arms of the gentleman behind her (she was suspiciously careful as she fell, and her neck was arched to show off her jewels in Logan’s direction.) Logan grimaced and handed Virgil his wine.

“My goodness!” A woman next to the lady cried, obviously being theatrical on behalf of her friend. “Is there a _doctor_ present?”

Logan was already removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves. “Hold my wine. I’m going to need it tonight.”

Virgil took his coat, too. A grin on his face show his excitement about his winning the bet. “Have fun being _wooed!”_

“Stand back! Please, everyone, please, stand back. Give the lady air!” Logan gestured for everyone to step back so he could take the unconscious woman from the arms of a straining nobleman. As soon as he touched her, her eyes fluttered open and she grasped at his shoulder.

“Oh! Oh, my… I don’t know what happened!”

Logan grumbled under his breath, “Of _course_ you don’t…”

Against the wall, Virgil was laughing so hard, he nearly spilled the wine. Logan managed to help the lady to the balcony, sit her on a bench to breathe the cool night air, and make it back through the crowds un-harassed twenty minutes later. His wine was room-temperature when Virgil handed it to him.

“Welcome back. Did you--”

“Let me drink first.” Logan gulped down the wine fast enough that he coughed when he was done. Virgil stared at him.

“That bad?”

“Not _bad_ ,” Logan admitted. “Just _tedious_. She kept complimenting my _eyes_. What is it with these nobles and _eyes?”_

Virgil grabbed a sandwich off a passing tray and popped it into his mouth. He grimaced and said, “Eyes are the windows to the soul— god, did they just take wood shavings and put it between _bread?”_

“First Roman, now _this_ woman… you’d think they marry people based on their eyes alone.”

Virgil made a face and smacked his lips. “Like eating _paper._ ”

Logan glanced at him. “You know, I’m confiding in you. This is troubling me.”

Virgil’s face didn’t change. “I know. I’m ignoring you.”

Logan’s eyes went wide. “ _Virgil_.”

“What?” Virgil held up his hands. “You have people fawning over you. Boo-hoo, poor Logan, you have a pretty face.” Logan continued to stare, and Virgil crossed his arms over his chest. “I’d give _anything_ for…” he mumbled the rest, too quiet for Logan to hear.

“For what?”

“I want someone to look at _me_ , Logan.” Logan opened his mouth, ready to state the fact that Virgil got _nervous_ when people looked at him, but Virgil cut him off with: “And not just because I’m tall and caught their eye.”

“You know,” Logan said, “ _You_ were the one who made the damn bet.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not jealous,” Virgil said, sounding more sad than irritated. Logan stared at him.

“Jealous,” he repeated. “Of _me_.”

“You have to admit,” Virgil grumbled, “You have it _very_ good. You went to that big school, learned so much and got all this _respect_ …”

Logan squirmed. “I became a doctor to help people, Virgil. To give back to the community.”

Virgil slouched a bit. “All I wanted was to make money. To have a roof over my head. That’s all I wanted.”

“And you _have_ it,” Logan said softly. “You have a shop. A bed on the second floor. You live on your own earnings.” Virgil was quiet, staring out at the masses with a stiff face. Logan touched his shoulder. “There isn’t anything wrong with being self-sufficient.”

Still, Virgil’s mouth was set in a deep frown. “If I had been like you,” he said softly. “If I had been smart like you. Gone to Edinburgh. Been a doctor. Would he look at me?”

Logan’s eyes went wide. Virgil definitely said ‘he’ and not ‘she.’ Did he know what he was saying? Logan grabbed Virgil’s shoulder and dragged him down. “Breathe on me.”

Virgil snorted. “What?”

“Breathe.” Virgil did. He smelled like whiskey. Logan let him go. “You… you’ve been drinking.”

Virgil pinched his fingers together. “Only a _little.”_

“Maybe you should leave for the night,” Logan suggested gently. He _knew_ that Virgil couldn’t handle his liquor. And if he was going to be talking about some _man_ … Logan blinked. The client Virgil had been talking about. It couldn’t be a _man,_ could it? Logan put a hand on Virgil’s bicep and said, “Go to the balcony and get some air. Please. I insist. You’re--”

A group of people parted as a woman _“oooh!”_ -ed dramatically and sank to the floor. Logan gritted his teeth as Virgil snatched a drink from a passing tray. He could help the woman or stop Virgil from drinking. He couldn’t do both at once.

“Dr. Stein!” A gentleman called, oblivious to Logan’s conundrum. “Please, we could use some assistance!”

Quickly, Logan grabbed the drink from Virgil’s hand, knocked it back with a wince, and pointed at him authoritatively. “Stop drinking.”

Virgil wrinkled his nose. “ _You_ stop drinking.”

Logan managed to stumble to the woman’s aid, help her to her feet, and sit her down in another room to rest. A few ladies came with him, admiring his strength and chivalry as Logan waved them away with polite, recycled phrases like, “It’s just my job,” and “You’re too kind.” He went back to the wall with Virgil, but his vision was already starting to go hazy. He’d had too much too fast. And Virgil didn’t look much better.

Before Logan could scold him, Patton Moore stepped out of the crowds and smiled a sunshine smile. “Mr. Lent! Dr. Stein! How nice to see the two of you!”

“Ah.” Logan paused and glanced at Virgil before looking back to Patton. “I didn’t realize the two of you were acquainted.”

Virgil couldn’t even _try_ to hide what was on his face. It was clear in the way he looked at Patton. There was admiration, adoration, and affection… if Logan wasn’t already tipsy, he would’ve begged for a stiff drink. When Virgil tipped forward, obviously attempting to make a move for Patton, Logan put a hand on his arm and propped him up. Patton looked a little worried though, his blue eyes flickering between the two of them.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” He said politely. “He’s had too much.”

“Oh, no!” Patton cooed as he reached out to put a hand on Virgil’s other arm. “Here, let me take you to the library. It’s nice and quiet there. You can rest a bit.”

Logan nearly wanted to grind his teeth down to the gumline. This was _ridiculous_. Didn’t Patton see he was _teasing_ Virgil? That his _heart_ was on the damn line? Virgil looked lovesick. Logan just _felt_ sick. And Patton seemed completely oblivious as he hooked an arm through Virgil’s and smiled.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Stein,” he promised, “He’s in excellent hands.”

Virgil grinned like he’d _won_ something. “I’m in _excellent_ hands.” He waved Logan out of the way. “Go babysit the other elite.”

Patton raised an eyebrow and looked at Logan. Logan felt his ears burn. “I am not _babysitting_ the elite.”

“Stein!” A familiar voice snapped. Logan winced… and turned to see Remus Kingsley marching toward him from across the room. “There he is! Dr. Stein!”

Virgil opened his mouth and Logan pointed at him crossly. “Not. A _word_.”

Patton started to lead Virgil away and Virgil grumbled, “ _Babysitting_ the elite.”

“Those are _words_ ,” Logan snapped back, “Stop. Using them.”

Patton giggled at that, holding Virgil’s arm captive as he leaned toward him and said, “The two of you seem to be good friends!”

“Yeah,” Virgil sighed as he tried to match Patton’s shorter steps. He smiled down at Patton and people would have to be _blind_ not to see how besotted he was. “Good friends.”

“ _Stein!”_ Remus growled again, closer than before. Logan turned to see Remus walk up to him, get _far_ too close, and grasp his wrist. “Come with _me_.”

Logan was not a surly drunk. This is important to note because of how he behaved when Reus tugged him along. He didn’t fight or shout or kick… but he did get curious. Logan liked to debate and discuss, and more often than not, found himself recalling interesting bits of literature he’d read to others around him. So, he didn’t yell. He didn’t fight… but he _was_ irritated.

That irritation didn’t go far, however. Logan was pulled to the corner of the room where a grand piano was waiting. Next to it, Roman Kingsley stood with a young woman perched happily on his arm. Really, it looked like Roman was a hostage and his arm was shackled. Logan didn't mind that. He was drawn to Roman’s appearance. 

He wore fine, pressed trousers and a nicely cut vest. His broad shoulders were accentuated by an evening coat with gold embroidery on the lapels. His hair was nicely combed, lying in a sophisticated curl over his brow. He looked like a painting of a gentleman ready to woo any and all ladies. If Eros decided to attend the party, he would look shabby in comparison to this.

(Logan was not a _surly_ drunk. He was a _romantic_ drunk.)

“Stay here,” Remus ordered gruffly before he slunk back into the crowds.

Logan hardly heard him, he was watching the way Roman smiled politely, nodding at whatever the young woman on his arm said to him. The girl was obviously enamored, hanging on his every word whenever Roman could say something. Raven-black hair and bright eyes that would snare any man… she was a lovely young woman. And if the gown she wore was any indication, she was _very_ wealthy. But Roman… he looked distant. His face was flushed… from the wine? Or from the girl? Logan felt something bubble up in his gut; he wasn’t happy with this. Roman looked so ridiculously beautiful with some pretty young thing on his arm… Logan wasn’t happy.

(Logan was a romantic drunk. He was also a _jealous_ drunk.)

Before he could march over to Roman and do something _incredibly_ stupid, Remus appeared next to the piano with a flourish. He looked wild next to Roman. His hair wasn’t nicely combed, it sat in artistic disarray. His trousers were smooth and well-tailored, but his vest (embroidered with silver, to oppose Roman, it would seem) was halfway unbuttoned, displaying his clean, white shirt. It was inappropriate, but no one seemed to mind when Remus called for the crowds’ attention.

“Ladies and gentlefolk!” Remus said loudly, the room fell into a low murmur, and all eyes turned to the Kingsley Brothers (and the young lady). Remus gestured to the girl. “In celebration of _lovely_ Miss Blade’s birthday, I propose a song!” He winked at Roman. “If my brother would indulge me.”

Roman smiled and looked _relieved_ by this prospect. Giving Miss Blade a warm smile, Roman kissed her hand and stepped away from her. Logan felt his throat constrict; he was sick. It was the alcohol. It had to be. Roman stepped closer to his brother, put a hand on his shoulder, then said, “Why, Remus… I thought you’d never ask.”

The man stationed at the piano was given a signal from Remus, and he began to play. It was a song that Logan wasn’t familiar with. Really, any music was unfamiliar to Logan. He didn’t have time for the arts. But then, in that moment, Logan was captivated by a gentle, lilting melody. He saw the warmth on Roman’s eyes as he looked at his brother. He saw Remus grinning wide and unashamed. They sang, and Logan felt his heart fill to bursting.

It wasn’t English. It wasn’t French. It must’ve been Italian. The song was slow and sweeping, and Roman moved with each word, his hands making soft, careful gestures. Remus took the low notes. Roman took the high. The song lasted only a few minutes… but the song lasted _forever_. At the end, there was a long, suspended note. Roman took it but grasped for Remus’s shoulder for support as he swayed dangerously.

Logan blinked and let his brain catch up with his current situation. The signs were all there. Roman was out of breath. He looked pale. How did Logan not see it? How could he let himself be so carelessly enchanted? The song ended and the guests clapped excitedly; it wasn’t every day that two well-known artists performed at their parties. But Logan didn’t care about that. He saw the way Roman tipped and swayed. Remus reached for him, steadying his brother with a firm hand as Logan rushed forward.

“Mr. Kingsley!” He shouted, earning Roman’s attention. Roman saw him, his eyes went wide… and he smiled so hopelessly, it made Logan’s heart ache. He barely made it in time for Roman to tip forward and faint straight into his arms.

The crowds gasped in alarm, and a few women screamed, but Logan didn’t hear them. He was cradling Roman as carefully as he could, lowering him to the floor so he could check his condition. Over him, Remus was waving someone away.

“Please! Miss Blade! Let the doctor do his work!”

Logan laid Roman down, a hand under his head so it wouldn’t hurt. He was breathing, but his face had gone ghostly pale. Logan pulled at Roman’s cravat, loosening it so Roman could breathe easier. After a few, tense moments of Logan feeling for the madly thudding pulse at Roman’s neck, Roman’s eyes fluttered open. Logan felt relief wash over him like a tidal wave.

“Mr. Kingsley—"

“I think I had a vision,” Roman whispered hazily. Logan blinked hard, and Roman smiled. “A vision of Heaven. Stormy blue eyes and a secret smile… were you waiting there, at Heaven’s gates?”

Logan frowned. “I think you’re confused, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman blinked slowly and wrinkled his nose with a smug smile. “Dr. Stein, your breath… are you… are you _drunk_?”

“No,” Logan said quickly. Then, “Perhaps.” Another pause. “Only a bit.”

Roman laughed and it sounded like summertime. “Only a bit, he says.” Logan took his hand from Roman’s pulse, and Roman hummed. “I feel dizzy.”

“Deep breaths,” Logan ordered as he took Roman’s shoulders and sat him up. Roman sagged and lolled like a puppet without strings, leaning into Logan heavily. “ _Deep breaths_ , Mr. Kingsley.”

“You know,” Roman chuckled, “You could just say my name. It’s _Roman_. I’m certain that you know it.”

Logan grimaced and glanced around. Remus was still fending off the hordes of ladies that wanted to see Roman’s condition. Miss Blade was among them, her cold, dead eyes zeroing in on Logan himself. Those eyes cut into him and held like a hook. Logan tore his eyes away and it was nearly painful… but Roman looked up at him with those dazed, adoring green eyes, and he was immediately soothed. 

“It would be inappropriate,” Logan forced himself to say. “To call you by your first name. You’re my patient. A doctor treats all patients with respect.”

“You do,” Roman agreed dizzily. “You’re very respectful. So respectful. And you’re _drunk_. How is that possible?”

Logan blinked slowly and cuffed a hand through his hair tiredly. “That’s an excellent question.” Roman sighed, and Logan hauled him to his feet. “Come along… we’ll get you to the balcony.”

With Roman’s arm slung over his shoulder, Logan started to walk him to the balcony. Out of the heated-crowds and smoky air, he might be able to breathe easier. He didn’t get far. Patricia Blade stepped into their path and Logan stumbled. He sent Remus a glare, but Remus had his hands full with several other noblewomen trying to gain his attention. Logan turned back to Patricia.

“Oh, Roman,” she cooed, reaching out to cup Roman’s cheeks and force their eyes to meet. “Poor thing! You poor, fragile man.”

Roman grimaced and didn’t even try to hide it. “Such kind words.”

Patricia’s eyes glittered and it wasn’t charming. It was disconcerting. “Poor darling… I’ll sit with you, hmm? It’ll make you feel better.”

Logan went rigid, straightening his back and shoulders so he could stand taller than Patricia. “I think Mr. Kingsley needs a bit of space, Miss Blade. To recover.”

“He’ll feel better if I’m with him,” she insisted despite all evidence to the contrary. She gave Logan’s attire a quick once over… then smiled grimly. “I don’t expect a man like you to understand.”

Logan recoiled from the comment, but Roman was holding him in place. He couldn’t just _drop_ the man and leave in a huff despite how much he wanted to… he would never do that to Roman. Instead, Roman straightened up a bit, glared at Patricia, and said, “ _Black of heart,_ indeed. My brother was right.”

Patricia looked at him, clearly confused. “What?”

“And _mean_...” Roman grimaced, looked down, and said, “I think I’m going to be sick.” _That_ made Patricia stumble back. Logan walked Roman out of the room, through the glass doors to the balcony. They were only a few steps into the night air when Roman said, “I lied. I’m fine, Doctor. I simply didn’t want her to follow us.”

Logan helped him to the stone bench by the guard-rail. There, they looked over the night-darkened garden. Roman sat back with a sigh. Color was coming back to his cheeks. Logan sat with him. “Do you lie to ladies often?”

Roman hummed and loosened his cravat. After a bit of fiddling, he removed it entirely. It gave Logan a view of pale, exposed throat. Logan stared as Roman said, “Only when they attempt to insult a friend.”

“Friend?” Logan repeated. Roman smiled at him and Logan relaxed a bit. “Huh. _Friends_. I’ve never been friends with a patient before.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Roman assured him. Maybe it was the alcohol that made the premise sound nice, but Logan smiled.

“I’m not sure I know _how_ to be friends with a nobleman.”

“It’s just like anything,” Roman promised as he pat Logan’s knee. “I think we’re doing a splendid job as-is. I enjoy your company immensely.”

“Likewise, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman laughed. “You’re so _open_ this evening.”

Logan pursed his lips. “It’s the scotch and whiskey, I’m sure.” They were quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the party from a distance. The pianist took his place at the keys once more, filling the room with a soft, delicate ambiance. Logan marveled at the warmth of Roman’s leg against his. “Did you know,” he said after a moment of quiet, “That Mr. Moore knows an old friend of mine?”

Roman’s head was tipped back and resting on the railing, his eyes closed as he hummed. “Really?”

“Virgil and I grew up together. I was shocked to know that he and Mr. Moore were acquainted.”

Roman sat forward and gave Logan a look. “Virgil. As in Virgil _Lent_. The _engraver_? You know him?”

Logan stared at him. “We’re childhood friends. Practically brothers. _You_ know him?”

Roman sat back, thought about this for a moment, and then leaned his head back and closed his eyes once more. “I always thought London was a _large_ place. But it seems like a very small world. Virgil has been coming to the apartment for nearly two months. They seem _very_ well acquainted to me.”

Logan twitched; two months? Virgil only recently told him about this client. Had he not trusted Logan to keep his secret? Had he simply been scared? Logan drooped a little. Was he a bad friend? Was he untrustworthy?

Roman must’ve seen his face because he sat forward again and put a hand on Logan’s thigh. “Oh. Oh _,_ Dr. _Stein_ … my dearest man, don’t make such a face.”

“Was it obvious?” Logan asked. Roman stared at him, and Logan said, “He has been wringing his hands over this for two _months_ and I didn’t notice?”

Roman gave him a pitying smile. “Has he been? I’m not sure if I’m relieved or scared to hear it.”

Logan huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “You know. Virgil doesn’t _drink_. But he _drank_ tonight.”

Roman looked at him. “Imagine that.”

“If Virgil had his way, I’m sure he and Mr. Moore would be necking in the closet as we speak.”

“Dr. Stein!” Roman laughed scandalously. “You are _very_ entertaining when you drink.”

“Am I boring otherwise?”

Roman looked at him and the stare felt physical. “Not at all. You’re captivating no matter what or where you are.”

+++++

Remus itched for a pipe. Tobacco, opium… it didn’t matter. It would make things go _faster_. It was easier to be creative when he was in a daze. Though, really, to tell a story that was fact and not fiction, he didn’t _need_ to be creative. All he had to do was sit down and _write_.

But wouldn’t that be better to be in a daze? To be listless? Without Dee, he felt hollow. It reminded him of the days after Dee was killed. Those long, lonely days that he walked the halls of the Duell Estate all on his own before his own death. Remus pivoted in Thomas’s desk chair, looking for Dee. He was still there, watching him from the doorway. Their eyes met, and Dee smiled.

“You look startled, love,” he said, like he knew exactly what had scared Remus. Still, he remained in the doorway. Sunlight streamed through the slats in the blinds… and right through Dee. He smiled, and it shined in the light. “I haven’t left you.”

“I know,” Remus said. A lie. Sometimes, one of them would disappear. Sometimes, they would go hazy and distant. One the anniversary of their deaths, they were forced to relive that pain… unable to find comfort in one another. Maybe… maybe writing the story would make it better. Maybe if fact was put to paper, it wouldn’t have to hurt.

Maybe, if the world _knew the truth_ … he could see Roman again. He could see Roman smiling and happy, unburdened by illness. He could see Logan; the poor, broken man had been devastated when Roman died. And Patton? Oh, Patton… when Virgil had passed, he was inconsolable…

Remus turned back to the computer and placed his hands on the keys. He didn’t type. “What if,” he said shakily. “When this is written… we disappear? This _is_ why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Dee’s voice was soft in the doorway. “It is.”

“And when it’s complete… what happens to us?”

“Then our story is told,” Dee answered readily. “Roman’s memory will be preserved. And someone will know what Patton Moore and Virgil Lent went through… the strides they took together. Without them… I really don’t think Roman and Logan would’ve gotten their heads out of the sand.”

Remus snickered and looked down at his hands. He could see the keyboard through them. He smiled. “ _Sing me a lullaby, dearest. Make the darkness come swifter than a blade._ ”

In the doorway, Dee shifted and leaned against the frame. “Your last letter to me.”

“I left it to you on the pillow,” Remus smiled, and he felt the sunlight warm him for a moment. Then, just like a memory, it faded. “I’m surprised you came back to read it.”

“Oh, my love.” Dee was standing behind him, his hands on his shoulders as he leaned down to kiss the crown of Remus’s hair. “I never left you.”

+++++

Logan shook himself awake. The air of spring was chilling, and the wind was stiff. He blinked hard, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. Against him, Roman was breathing slow and deep. Logan glanced at him. They had been talking about something. Poetry? Logan could almost remember. The night was going hazy. Roman had leaned against his shoulder, closed his eyes… and then they must’ve nodded off. Logan cleared his throat loudly, and Roman sat up.

“What did you say?” Roman asked, his voice dull with sleep as he reached up to smooth his hair. Logan glanced at him.

“I can’t recall. What were _you_ saying?”

Roman made a pinched expression, blinked, and said, “Poetry. Were we talking about poetry?”

“Probably,” Logan took out a kerchief and wiped at the lenses of his glasses. “I think I remember something of the sort.”

Roman hummed. “Do you like it?”

“ _Poetry?”_ Logan asked, a little stunned. After a moment of thought, he shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t had much time for casual reading. Most things I read are medical studies.”

“Ever the intelligent doctor,” Roman smiled as he glanced up at the night sky. Clouds were gathering overhead. There would be rain that night. Roman sighed. “I’ve read to you, haven’t I? Some of my poetry.”

“You’ve read lines to me, Mr. Kingsley.” Logan remembered them vividly.

_A breath of spring ushers in love's light whispers._

_Can you hear the songs under the skin? A heartbeat that is made for you,_

_Stitched into my very soul. A symphony,_

_For you._

None of it made sense to Logan. But it was fascinating to see Roman pour over the lines, frustrated by what did or didn’t sound correct. He would _agonize_ over it, asking Logan for advice during his weekly visit. Whether he was healthy or ill, Roman was always _making_ something. Sometimes he would play the violin. Sometimes he’d be working on his enormous painting. And then, the poetry… the poetry that caught Logan and held tight. It was frivolous… but it was still _beautiful_ in a way that Logan didn’t understand.

Roman sighed. “Some of the ladies here tonight want to hear me recite poetry.” He paused, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Poetry can convey so much… but no more than any writing. It can tell our deepest secrets, our hidden desires… and it can all be placed so elegantly on a page.”

“A letter would suit just as well.”

Roman laughed and gave him a fond look. “You’re so _cynical_.”

“Cynicism suits me,” Logan replied sharply. Roman still watched him, and Logan adjusted his glasses. “There’s a chill in the air, Mr. Kingsley. We’d best go inside.”

Roman laughed… and then coughed into his hand. Logan gave him a look, and Roman laughed again. “Oh, are you worried for my health, Doctor? You’re so kind.”

“It’s my job to worry about your health.”

They stood together, walking close enough that their shoulders brushed as they walked through the open doors and back into the ballroom. They had a moment to breathe before Roman was swept up in a tidal wave of admirers. Many wanted to see if he was recovered. Some simply reached out to touch his arm or shoulder, like he was some sort of ghost from the balcony and they needed to verify his corporeality.

Among the throng was Patricia Blade, her fingers latched onto Roman’s elbow the same way a drowning man clings to a buoy. Logan found himself farther and farther from the swarm as the minutes passed; Roman was pulled to the center of the room, preened and praised as he carefully held Patricia’s arm and accepted all sorts of pleasantries and fond get-well wishes. Every now and then, he would look around, searching in Logan’s vague direction. From the mournful look on his face, he wasn’t able to see Logan through the crowd.

Logan had never felt more alone in his life.

People eyed him warily; he was, after all, the doctor that held Roman Kingsley hostage for nearly an hour on the balcony. They’d sat together, quiet and chatting about the silliest things. Poetry. Schooling. Music and books… Logan had felt very _free_ out there on that cold, stone bench. But then again, it could have been the alcohol making him feel warm and calm.

Before he could make a swift getaway, Logan was startled when an arm slipped into his own.

“You’re going to make people worry,” a lady’s voice cooed next to him. He looked down to see a beautiful woman holding his arm. She had fair skin and dark hair pulled into a delicate twist. Her gown was a deep, dark violet. She smiled, and she looked like a fairytale. “You’re making such a _face_ , doctor.”

Logan’s brow furrowed as he took her hand and moved it to the crook of his elbow. A proper gentleman supported a lady if she was on his arm. “Pardon me… have we met?”

“Not at all,” the lady said. She still held onto his arm when she said, “My name is Emily Franc. You _are_ the Dr. Stein that the whole room has been whispering about, aren’t you?”

Logan twitched. “I had no idea I was the object of idle gossip.”

Emily laughed softly into a lacy-gloved hand. “Idle gossip indeed. It was a wonderful catch, the way you caught Roman. Everyone was twittering about it.”

“Oh.” Logan grimaced. “Imagine that.”

Leaning into him a bit, Emily giggled and pat his arm like they were old companions. “Don’t pout, Doctor. A handsome face like yours will get stuck if you look like that for too long.” Then, after a moment, she said, “You know why I’m here, don’t you?”

Logan knew the rules of a gentleman… but he was also tipsy and tired. “Do you want me to ask for a dance, Mrs. Franc?”

“ _Miss_ Franc, actually,” she said, like it mattered. “And _no_. I’m here because you looked like you were drowning.”

Logan blinked. “Drowning?”

“As soon as they swept Roman away, you looked positively _helpless,_ Doctor. People would’ve _talked_ with the way you looked after him.”

“People always talk, Ms. Franc. They do little else.”

Emily smiled and took a step away. “Then you’d rather be on your own? With all the people watching you?” Logan made a face, and Emily stepped close again. He held her hand to his arm and she sighed. “There, there, Dr. Stein. I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten you.”

“Roman is a busy man—” Logan paused, sputtered, and dumbly said, “Sorry… who?”

Emily smiled, but didn’t look at him. “There are a lot of lovely people at this party. Shame so many of them are full of hot air.”

Logan blinked at her. “I’ve never heard a lady say such a thing.”

Emily finally gave him an amused look. “Then you don’t know many interesting ladies.” She paused, saw a friend in the crowd, and waved happily. “Forgive me, but I’ll have to leave you. Surely, you can find another lady to keep you company until Mr. Kingsley can free himself. Until then,” Emily stepped back and took one of Logan’s hands. She gave it a fond pat. “It was lovely standing with you, Dr. Stein.”

He kissed the back of her hand. “Thank you for the company, Ms. Franc.”

Emily left him slowly, walking into the arms of her friend with a smile on her face. The women embraced, looked back at Logan, and leaned into each other with wide, giggly smiles. It was like they knew a secret that he didn’t. Not that it mattered. It meant Logan was all alone again.

Logan blinked and looked around for that familiar, tall frame. Where the _devil_ was Virgil?

Unbeknownst to Logan, Virgil was hardly two halls away. Patton had attempted to find the library with them… but they’d gotten spectacularly lost as they stumbled around the house together. They had been walking for some time when Virgil had taken Patton’s chin, leaned down, and kissed him. Patton was understandably surprised. But Virgil was unprepared for Patton’s response.

He didn’t slap him. He didn’t punch him. Patton gathered the lapels of Virgil’s coat, backed him up against the wall, and _dragged_ him down into another kiss. It was the alcohol, Virgil reasoned. It was the alcohol that made Patton do these things. It was understandable. He was drunk. Patton was probably drunk. Everything sounded like a good idea when liquor was involved.

And he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He kissed Patton and tasted the bitterness of expensive wine. His hands shivered as he reached under Patton’s evening coat and grasped at his hips. To his delight, Patton gasped and leaned into him, their bodies connected from chest to waist. Patton kissed hard, like he needed to prove something. And Virgil took each one in stride, tilting his head to kiss deeper, longer. 

Finally, after _months_ of pining, he had him. Patton was in his arms. Patton’s fingers were knotted in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. Each breath was desperate and quick, followed by a flicker of eyes. What were they doing? He kissed Patton. Patton kissed him back. _What were they doing?_

With the way they were pressed together, it would’ve been impossible to miss the stiffness of Virgil’s erection pressing against Patton’s stomach. Patton’s own hard-on was hot against Virgil’s thigh through their trousers. This was ridiculous. He grabbed Patton under his thighs, hoisted him up, and Patton gasped and giggled. His legs wrapped around Virgil’s waist, secure and safe, and he ducked down to kiss him again. Virgil had never had someone _duck down_ to kiss him. They were going to get caught.

“Virgil,” Patton gasped, wanton and impossible to ignore. Virgil turned so he could press Patton up against the wall. Patton’s legs around his waist tighten as he hit the wall and moaned, _“Virgil.”_

Virgil paused. He’d thought of something. What was it? He kissed the column of Patton’s neck, pulling at his collar to let his teeth graze delicate skin. Patton’s fingers tightened in his hair and Virgil nipped at his skin. He tasted the salt of sweat and felt Patton gasp under him. The thought came back to him in a flash:

_They were going to get caught._

Startled, Virgil lurched away from Patton and dropped him to the floor. Patton squeaked, stumbled, and held himself up against the wall. Their eyes met. Their breathing was heavy. Patton swallowed thickly, his lips red and swollen… and Virgil rushed back in. He kissed him once, twice, and Patton was _reaching_ for him, pulling him back in…

Virgil tore himself away again, slamming his hands against the wall on either side of Patton’s head. “No!” He shouted. That was loud. Too loud. He leaned close to Patton and whispered, “ _No.”_

Patton blinked up at him, his eyes wide behind his glasses. Softly, he repeated, “No?”

“We’re drunk,” Virgil slurred. Patton nodded mutely, and Virgil smiled. “We’re _drunk._ ”

“I know,” Patton whispered, a little scandalous. After a few deep breaths, Patton licked his lips and closed his eyes. “It’s hot.”

“It’s the laq—liq—" Virgil stooped trying to be formal. “It’s the booze.”

Patton giggled, his nose all scrunched up as he repeated, _“Booze.”_

Where he leaned over Patton, he could see the freckles that dusted his cheeks and nose. Freckles aren’t just resigned to someone’s face. Freckles went everywhere. Virgil wanted to see the ones on his arms, his back, his hips… Virgil shook his head. It made him dizzy. Dizzy was fine. Dizzy was distracting. 

Again, he said, “We. Are drunk.”

Patton blinked up at him. “Yes.”

“We should stop.”

Patton worried his bottom lip, glancing down at Virgil’s lips before he met Virgil’s gaze again. “We… _could_.”

Virgil nodded. “We could.”

“We should,” Patton repeated. This conversation was going nowhere fast. It was impossible to be linear with two drunken heads. Two wrongs did _not_ make a right. But _damn_ Virgil wanted to be wrong. Just for a while. Just a few more minutes… no. No, it wouldn’t do them any good.

He pointed a finger in Patton’s face and said, “This. _This…_ was a mistake.” Patton’s face flushed a deep, hurt scarlet. His freckles were highlighted in rouge. Virgil panicked and cupped his cheeks, forcing Patton’s chin up so their eyes met. “No! No, don’t—don’t. Don’t cry. God… dammit. _Shit_ , don’t cry. Don’t.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Patton hissed as he shook his head and pushed Virgil’s hands away. “I shouldn’t have… I’m so sorry, I thought…”

“We’re drunk,” Virgil snapped harshly. Patton flinched and nodded. “People make mistakes when they’re drunk.”

“Right.”

“So, we’ll just… leave this be.”

Patton nodded again. “Right.”

Virgil took a shuddering breath and pushed his hair from his eyes. “And we’ll pretend this… never happened. If we remember it in the morning.”

Again, Patton’s voice was hollow as he mumbled, “ _Right_.”

There was a pause. A moment where they both looked at each other. Patton’s eyes were glossy. Virgil’s head was spinning. None of this _meant_ anything. Patton was just drunk. Hell, they _both_ were. But Patton didn’t _mean_ it. No wealthy man went around doing things like this if he meant it. This was a whim. Patton already said he shouldn’t have done it. And yet, there they were.

Virgil leaned forward and touched their foreheads together. Patton’s eyes closed. Their lips met. Once… twice. Patton reached up for him and Virgil gathered Patton up into his arms. The kiss was slow and careful. Virgil wanted it to last. He wanted to _remember it_ in the morning. Hopefully he would. Hopefully it would be like a dream. For that night, he had everything he ever wanted.

“Please,” Patton whispered against his lips. Virgil hesitated, leaning back to see Patton’s eyes closed tight and his brow furrowed with worry. “Please… I don’t want this to end. Not if… not if I don’t know it’ll ever happen again.”

Virgil took his chin gently… and kissed him once more. Just once. Patton waited for more, his eyes still closed and lips still parted… but Virgil swept away from him. He left Patton leaning against the wall, its surface being the only thing holding him up. Virgil stalked his way back to the ballroom where he’d left Logan nearly an hour before.

When he walked in, he found Logan sulking near the doors to the balcony. He met him there, smoothing a hand down the front of his jacket. Logan gave him a long look.

“You owe me a crown,” Logan said stiffly. “Only two women have fainted and I’m ready to leave.” Virgil grunted, and Logan gave his attire another long look. “You’re very… wrinkled. Where on _earth_ have you been?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.” Virgil glanced around the room. Patton hadn’t followed him. For all he knew, he was still there in the hall, waiting for him to come back. Virgil’s chest ached at the thought. “First chance I get, I’m _leaving_ this damn place.”

Logan was still looking at him, assessing his condition with those damn, perceptive eyes. “Virgil… what happened to you?”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Virgil repeated angrily. Frustrated (with Logan, or with himself?) Virgil buttoned his coat and readied himself to make a break for the door. Social protocol be damned he was leaving this place. As he started off, Logan followed him. Virgil gave him a look. “Had enough nice scotch for one night?”

“Believe me, Virgil,” Logan sighed as they took their overcoats from a butler and walked out into the cold, night air. As predicted, rain had started to fall. They put on their hats. Neither man looked back. “I’ve had enough for a lifetime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parties and music and secrets, oh my...
> 
> See you next chapter!  
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-note


	6. Blood-tipped Sapphires

It was Sunday morning when Logan received a note. He paid the boy for the delivery, opened the note, and sighed. Roman Kingsley was ill again. And this time, it was Roman himself that was calling for him. Logan had noticed the changes between them as of late; rather than Patton calling for his assistance, it was Roman writing the notes in a wobbly, unorganized manner. Logan pulled on his coat with an uneasy hurry.

Just last night, they had attended a party. Logan had left without saying a word to Roman… and Logan had been strangely awkward ever since. It wasn’t as if Logan needed Roman’s _permission_ to leave the party, but it had still stuck in his stomach when he sat in his office chair that morning, quiet and nursing a foul headache. He remembered sitting with Roman for a long time, talking about anything and everything. Poetry, studies… and he’d enjoyed every moment. Then, the moment they stepped away from the balcony and back into the ballroom, things had shifted. A rift had been forcefully opened between them, and Logan was left standing at the edge of a large chasm with Roman on the other side.

They were too different, Logan realized. No matter what Roman said about “friendship” and no matter how much they enjoyed each other’s company, they were from two different worlds and it was bound to stay that way.

And now, a note from Roman asking for his assistance.

Logan made his way across the city – not in a hurry, he would never _hurry_ , not when Roman tended to be dramatic and call for help when he didn’t _need_ it – but he did rush. He was… dare he say it, he was _anticipating_ seeing Roman again. He wanted to make sure that he wasn’t too ill from the cold night on the balcony. He wanted to see if he was up and smiling. Maybe he would be standing at his easel, waiting for him. Maybe he would be curled up under the blankets shivering. Maybe, Logan grimaced, maybe… he would have news. News about Patricia Blade. News about an engagement.

Logan marched up to the front door and slammed the knocker hard. It pinched his fingers against the wood, but he was too frustrated to care. He stood on the step angrily, fuming at the possibility that… what? That Roman would be engaged? That he would be happy with someone else? Logan let some of the steam out of his lungs. This was ridiculous. He had no right to be angry about something like that.

The front door opened, and Patton was waiting for him. He didn’t smile. In fact, he looked oddly subdued as he gestured for Logan to come inside.

“Not a moment too soon,” Patton murmured as he walked Logan to the stairs. His voice was quiet. His movements were withdrawn. And his face… Logan would’ve had to be a fool not to see the pallor of his cheeks and the circles under his eyes. “He’s not well, but… you know Roman. He won’t stop.”

Logan took the first step onto the stairs… and then paused. He looked at Patton. “Mr. Moore… you seem out of sorts.”

Patton looked up at him. “Do I?”

There was something on his neck. Logan reached out instinctively, touching the edge of Patton’s collar and revealing a bruise that peaked out from beneath his collar. Patton flinched away, holding a hand to his neck as if Logan was holding a red-hot fire poker to his skin. Logan withdrew his hand. “Forgive me. That looks…” he struggled for words. How would someone get a bruise _there_? “Painful.”

“It’s the strangest thing,” Patton murmured, almost to himself. “I haven’t the slightest clue how it happened.”

“Oh?”

Patton looked up at him and Logan saw something in his eyes. A sadness that lingered behind his irises. A knowing glint that said he knew _exactly_ what happened. “I haven’t the slightest.”

Logan felt something tug at his chest. He wasn’t sure what it was, but his hand moved of its own accord, reaching up to touch Patton’s shoulder gently. “You seem tired, Mr. Moore. You should rest.”

For the first time that day, Patton smiled. But he simply looked worn. It was the smile that a man put on when he had nothing else to lose. “I’m afraid I’m heading out for the afternoon. I’ve business to attend. Please, look after Roman for me.”

Logan glanced up the stairs. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Patton had already left him, taking his coat and hat and slinking out the door in a very un-Patton way. He was so… ashen. And empty. Like blown glass that was cooled too fast. He was shattered, and Logan wasn’t sure how it happened. With Patton gone, Logan hefted up his bag, straightened his shoulders, and walked up the stairs.

Roman was at his easel. This is important to note because he was doing something strange; he wasn’t moving. He simply stared at the large canvas, his hands limp at his sides as he looked at soft pastels that melted into darks. Logan glanced at the painting. It was a beach of some kind. A house settled on the outlines of a gray, English coastline. Tall grasses wept for rain and the sand was murky from the abuse of rough waters. It seemed… tragic, in some way. The colors were darker than Logan remembered them being. Had Roman changed them since his last visit?

“Mr. Kingsley?” He asked, seeing the way Roman twitched and turned to see him. His green eyes flickered, shining in the candlelight. Then, almost light he’d forgotten something, Roman looked back at the painting.

“What do you think?” He said, as if the painting was the topic of Logan’s visit. Roman was pale and shaking. He was not well. Still, he gestured to the painting and murmured, “Is it… is it perfect?”

Logan glanced at the painting. “I couldn’t say. Perfection is difficult to obtain in the arts.” Roman looked at him, and Logan said, “It looks fine, Mr. Kingsley.”

“It can’t be _fine_ ,” Roman snapped at him, the circles under his eyes highlighted in shadows that were thrown around the room. Roman looked at the painting, his breathing shallow as he searched for something. Some sort of inconsistency. A wrong hue or misplaced blade of grass. He looked ready to collapse as he said, “It has to be _perfect_. It has to be _just like it was_. It has to be…”

“Mr. Kingsley,” Logan said gently. He set his bag on the floor and reached for Roman. Roman didn’t move from the painting… and Logan took hold of his arm. Roman looked at him, surprised, and then let Logan take him away. “You’re shaking, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman leaned into his hold. “I don’t feel well,” he admitted. “I don’t feel well at all.”

After easing him down onto the mattress, Logan was surprised to see that Roman willingly laid down and _stayed_ down. Roman was normally itching to be with his easel or his sketchbook. Or sitting in the window, looking candid and melancholy. It was no matter, he had Roman laid down and complying with the normal check-up routine he performed with all his other patients.

When he took Roman’s hand and took his pulse he asked, “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Kingsley?”

Roman blinked slowly. “A fever, I think. I feel so warm. No cough yet… but the chills are starting to bother me.”

He gently put Roman’s hand down and went to check Roman’s lymph nodes, feeling delicately under the line of a strong jaw. They were swollen. He could feel Roman’s fever rolling off him in hot waves where he sat. Still, Logan asked, “Any muscle aches? Indigestion?”

Roman’s eyes fluttered shut. “I feel… an ache. Ever since I came home from the party, I felt an ache in my shoulders and legs.”

Logan frowned and pushed Roman’s shirt open a bit before he pulled out his stethoscope. Roman’s heartbeat was strong… but a bit elevated. He moved a little to the left and said, “Take a deep breath for me, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman hummed, and Logan heard it loudly through his earpieces. “You could just call me Roman.”

“No, thank you. It would be unprofessional. Furthermore, I am a gentleman. I wouldn’t presume to call a stranger by his first name. Deep breath, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman chuckled breathily as he put a hand over Logan’s where it held the bell of the stethoscope to his chest. “I thought we were _friends,_ Doctor. If we were truly friends, you’d call me by my name.”

Logan frowned. “I’m still your doctor, Mr. Kingsley. As I said, it would be unprofessional.”

“ _Well_.” Roman stared at him through a fan of dark eyelashes. “In that case, maybe you shouldn’t be my doctor.”

Well. That was that, then. A quick answer to their comradery at the party. If Logan wasn’t willing to play the fool, Roman would be done with him. Logan grit his teeth and took off his stethoscope and started to pack his things. “Very well. I can recommend several other physicians. I’ll leave names with Mr. Moore. Good day, Mr. Kingsley.”

“No!” Roman flailed on the bed, kicking back blankets and stumbling after Logan in a feverish haze. “No, don’t go! It was all in fun, my dear man. Please,” Roman’s eyes were hazy… but genuine. “Don’t go.”

He had Logan by the arm; even if Logan _wanted_ to leave, he couldn’t. So he stayed, lingering oddly in the doorway as Roman paused, took a shuddering breath, and proceeded to have a painful-sounding fit of coughing.

He was bent over double by the end of it, his face red with exertion and eyes cloudy with fatigue. Logan helped him back to bed, handing him a glass of water and holding it steady while Roman’s hands shook. Once he was settled down, Logan retrieved his stethoscope and held it to Romans chest.

“Take a deep breath, if you please.”

This time, Roman didn’t fight. He took a deep breath (one that crackled dangerously in Logan’s ears) before his breath caught and he coughed again. Logan leaned away, letting Roman cough into a handkerchief desperately before leaning back in. The crackling was concerning. An infection in his lungs? A serious ailment? He had Roman take several more deep breaths, and each time, Roman gagged and wheezed with terrible fits of coughing.

Taking up his bag, Logan gave Roman a sidelong look. “Where is the pain, Mr. Kingsley? In your lungs, or your throat?”

“It’s in my chest,” Roman croaked miserably as he put a hand over his sternum. “Always my chest. Why? Do you think my lungs are failing me?”

Logan went back to his bag, studiously avoiding the dreamy eyes Roman sent him. He found the vial he was searching for. “I think it sounds quite painful.”

“It is.” He stared at Logan for a moment, eyeing his bag with a detached, fever-addled distance before he said, “Tell me you have a better solution than bloodletting.”

Logan twitched. If the syrup didn’t help, he was going to suggest a quick bleeding. So he went with the syrup instead. “No, Mr. Kingsley. No bloodletting.”

Roman relaxed a bit, his tired eyes watching Logan’s hands. “What’s that?”

“My diagnosis,” Logan said with a flick of his wrist. He handed over the bottle. “Soothing Syrup for the cough. It should take care of the breathing issue.”

Roman grimaced and took the bottle gingerly. “ _More_ soothing syrup. The syrup that makes me tired.”

“A spoonful each morning for three days.” He clipped his back shut and stood. He could feel Roman’s gaze on him, but he ignored it and headed for the door. “Call on me if your cough returns.”

“And my fever?”

Logan turned to give Roman a sharp look. “Rest, Mr. Kingsley. The party has exhausted you… and spending time out on the balcony, in the cold, is most likely what cause this.”

Roman gave him a halfhearted glare. “I’m not exhausted.”

“Yes, you are. The circles under your eyes prove my point.”

Roman’s hands flew to his face as his eyes went wide. “What— you—"

Logan tipped his head. “Good day, Mr. Kingsley. Get some rest. Take your medicine.”

“Doctor!”

Logan halted with one foot out the door, rocked back on his heel, and gave Roman an indulging look. “Mr. Kingsley?”

“Tell me something,” he said, his voice frail and oddly delicate where he lay looking pale and tired. “I have no qualms with you. I find you to be _wonderful_ company. But a man like you... with all your looks and sharp intellect... you _could_ be the family doctor of some high-society lady.” Roman looked a little sad when he said, “So what are you doing paying house-calls to the little people around the city?”

Raising his eyebrows, Logan turned to fully face Roman. He wanted to know something... slightly personal. It was true, Logan could have a much easier life. He could be quite comfortable as a family physician. He could be well cared-for in the home of young, rich, eligible women. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t because he couldn’t abandon the streets where he grew up. He needed to be true to them. To care for the “little people” that the upper-class collectively ignored and forgot. He had to. For the memory of his mother.

Now, he couldn’t just tell _anyone_ this information. It would be strictly unprofessional to tell a patient no less. And yet. And yet... Roman looked at him. Really looked at him. Like there was something more to everything. Like he was a picture not quite finished. A paint out of hue. A line left undrawn. Like his fever was nothing and Logan was the center of the universe. Roman watched him, and Logan sighed with defeat.

Straightening his glasses, Logan said, “I grew up in the underbelly of this city, Mr. Kingsley. I know its darkest places, its cruelest natures... and I know how little care there is to go around. I know what needs done. And I do it.”

Roman didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. In fact, he looked incredibly sad. “That’s noble of you, Doctor.”

Logan looked away. “It’s simply duty.”

“Not all men as a good-hearted as you,” Roman said, drawing Logan’s attention. Roman smiled dizzily and Logan twitched where he stood. “Some are only after the money.”

“I’m paid fairly.”

“I know. I said, _some men_ , not you specifically.” Roman smoothed the blankets on his lap. “You aren’t the center of the city, my good man.”

Logan raised his eyebrows. “Are you calling me vain, Mr. Kingsley?”

“I certainly don’t think so,” Roman murmured with that soft, adoring smile. Logan felt something in him ache to reach for Roman. To touch his hand. To lull him to sleep. Just to make those eyes close and stop _looking_ at him. Roman spoke gently, “Unless you think you’re vain?”

“I think not,” Logan admitted. “I think I’m rather ordinary.”

“I don’t.” Roman stared at him with such earnestness, it almost hurt to see. Logan wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Roman held him in place as he said, “I think you’re rather extraordinary, Dr. Stein.”

Swallowing thickly, Logan tugged at his stiff collar before he cleared his throat. It was just too warm in the room. Roman’s stare felt too personal. He shifted where he stood and kept distance between them as he asked, “If that’s all, Mr. Kingsley?”

Roman looked down at his bottle of soothing syrup and murmured, “It is.”

“I’ll take my leave then.”

He stepped over the threshold of the room. Roman didn’t call for him to stop. It was almost... sad. To leave him. To leave the house. But Logan was a professional. He wasn’t one for unnecessary sentiment. So, he closed Roman’s bedroom door and descended the stairs. The house was quiet without Patton humming around the first floor as he tidied things or made tea. In fact, the routine _tic-tok-tic_ of the grandfather clock was almost unnerving. Logan took his coat, threw it over his shoulders, and stepped outside.

The sky was gray and heavy with rain. Something in the air brought a chill with it. Logan looked up; Roman’s window was closed. Good. The rain wouldn’t get in. It was cold for spring, and Roman’s health was reflecting it. Logan started off down the street with a chip on his shoulder.

In some ways, things had changed. The air around the two of them had shifted… but they barely spoke about things. There was still a gap in information. Logan left the party early… and Roman had been on his own for the rest of it. And even then, they hadn’t spent much time together. Logan almost regretted it. Leaving the party. Leaving _Roman_. But if Roman was happy there in his party of high-society friends… who was Logan to deny him? He wouldn’t hold Roman back. He couldn’t.

So, he pulled the brim of his hat when it started to rain in earnest. He hunched his shoulders against the cold. He walked away from Roman Kingsley’s apartment and didn’t look back. No matter what Roman had said about them being ‘friends,’ he was a patient. He would be treated like one.

And nothing more.

+++++

Patton held Clara for nearly an hour that rainy Sunday afternoon. It had been three days since he visited her. And after the party _(after Virgil)_ he was more than happy to pick up the little girl and cuddle her close. She hummed in his ear, some tune that he didn’t know. It had no melody. It was a stream of endless sound. It was comforting.

After sitting with her a while, patting her back and carefully smoothing her hair, Clara pulled at Patton’s collar and said, “What’s this?”

Patton winced and straightened his collar again. “Just a bruise, little duck. Don’t worry.”

Clara sat back and looked at him. “Did your Da hurt you?”

Patton blinked at her. “Pardon?”

“Your Da.” Clara touched the stiff fabric of Patton’s collar where it covered the burgundy blemish. “I won’t tell. It’ll be a secret.”

Patton looked at her for a while… and sat down. He put Clara on his lap and took her hands. “Clara. Darling… did your father hit you?” Clara didn’t answer. “Did he put his hands on you?”

Clara didn’t answer.

She wriggled out of his lap and don’t onto the floor, bouncing away to find something in the other room. Patton let her go. Whatever had happened to her… it was something they would have to understand later. When she was able to _tell him_. Patton doubted he’d get the information any other way.

Clara toddled back up to him with a blanket and requested being picked up again. He ended up holding her there for another hour. She fell asleep against his shoulder.

When he left the orphanage, he felt an odd feeling in the back of his mind. Like something was prickling over his skin. Like he was being _watched._ Patton glanced around, saw no one, and climbed into a carriage. It took him uptown… but he didn’t stop at Virgil’s shop. Not that day.

Virgil said it was a mistake. Virgil said that he didn’t want it to happen. Patton had to respect that.

Maybe it was the alcohol that made Virgil kiss him. Maybe he was a handsy-drunk. Remus was a handsy-drunk, so it wasn’t unheard of… Patton just hadn’t assumed it would _be like that._ Virgil was always pretty quiet and reserved. He was always a bit unsure when he spoke to Patton. But last night? He’d been _bold_ and _passionate_. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation until he forced them to a stop.

Patton grimaced and climbed out of the carriage, flipping the man on the box a spare coin on his way. Thinking of last night made him hot under the collar… but thinking of what Virgil said made his heart feel like a cold, heavy stone in his chest.

_“This was a mistake_.” He had said. _“People make mistakes when they’re drunk.”_

And it was completely true. They were drunk. They had no business doing what they’d done. But Patton had _meant_ it. Patton had been desperate for his feelings to be requited… but he should’ve known that Virgil didn’t feel the same. He should’ve known it was a drunken whim.

Virgil didn’t feel the same. And that was the end of it.

Patton walked through the rain and into his apartment, went to remove his coat… and paused. His pocket was heavy. Patton frowned. The watch for his father was still there. He should’ve gone to the grave that day. It was _Sunday_ after all. He should’ve gotten rid of the damn thing when he had the chance. With a heady sigh, Patton hung up his coat and left the watch in his pocket. The less of thought of it, the better.

Instead, he went to see Roman. He was still in bed, breathing deep and slow. Patton sat next to him, wiped the sweat from his brow, and smiled when Roman opened his eyes. The smile was returned in earnest.

“Home again, home again,” Roman rasped. “Welcome back, Patton.”

“I’m glad to be back.”

“Really?” Roman asked, his brow furrowing as he reached out to pat Patton’s hand. “Because you look dreadful.”

Patton sat back. “That’s rude!”

“But true!” Roman shot back. Then, he went soft and gave Patton’s hand a squeeze. “What is it, Patton? You’ve looked depressed ever since the party. Did something happen?”

Patton pressed his lips together tightly. A lie sounded nicer, but the truth was burning under his skin. It was difficult for him to lie anyway. After a moment, Patton sagged where he sat and murmured, “Virgil kissed me.”

Roman’s eyes went wide. “He _kissed_ you!”

“And then he said it was a mistake.”

Roman’s tone turned dark and angry as he repeated. “He _kissed_ you.”

“It wasn’t on purpose, I don’t think!” Patton said, immediately rushing to Virgil’s defense. He held Roman’s hand tight, using it as a lifeline as he thoughtlessly spouted. “We were drunk and wandering around the house… we laughed and… and he leaned into me.” He felt a little hazy around the edges as he said, “He kissed me. It… it almost felt like… like he _meant_ it.”

Roman coughed a bit before he said, “And you think he didn’t mean it.”

“I know he didn’t.” Patton looked at the floor. “He said it was a mistake and we should just forget that it ever happened.”

“Well. Now that he’s said to forget it, you’re going to remember it for all eternity,” said Roman. There was a pause, and Roman finally seemed to see the hurt on Patton’s face. “Oh. Oh, darling. _Oh, Patton_.”

Patton took off his glasses and scrubbed furiously at his face in an attempt to stop the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! You’re sick. You should be resting and I… I’m just…”

Roman was already sitting up and reaching for him, pulling Patton into a hug that broke the last remaining bits of his willpower. Patton clung to him and cried, feeling the heat of Roman’s fever. His fingers grasped at Roman’s shirt, pulling himself as close as he could without climbing into Roman’s shirt with him.

“How dare he,” Roman growled, more bitter than anything. “Toying with a heart as golden as yours.”

Patton caught his breath, shook his head, and said, “No. No, I was silly to get my hopes up.”

Roman held him tighter. “But he kissed you. Why would he do that if…”

“It was a mistake,” Patton whispered as he held himself to Roman. “It was a mistake and I should just forget about it.”

Roman didn’t say anything, but Patton knew he was going to stay bitter. Roman held grudges and Patton… Patton simply felt like something had been carved out of his chest and thrown away. Love was a far-off dream and Patton would never be able to hold it. It was a _mistake_ … and Patton remained hollow.

Empty, just like he was supposed to be.

+++++

Virgil leaned back where he sat. The light was too loud, and sounds were too bright. He clapped his hand over his eyes and groaned for the thousandth time that day. Across the clinic, Logan dipped a rag in cold water and wrung it out.

“You sound like a dying buck,” he said, as if this helped anything. It didn’t. Virgil’s head still pounded.

“Shut up,” Virgil whispered hoarsely.

“Most hangovers don’t last this long.” Logan spoke at a normal volume just to spite him. Virgil glared at him, and Logan dropped the cold cloth over his eyes. “You drank too much.”

“You think I don’t _know that?”_ Virgil held the cloth to his face and groaned again. “I think my brain has gone _liquid_.”

Logan hummed. “The brain is rather gelatinous. Fascinating, really. The things you learn in medical school.”

Virgil felt his stomach heave. “Don’t. Don’t… say things like that. I’ll be sick.”

With the cloth over his eyes, Virgil didn’t see Logan walk away, but he heard the clipped steps on the floorboards. Then the sigh of the chair when Logan sat down. For a moment, he was quiet. The quiet didn’t last long. Virgil knew better.

“Virgil,” he said. Then, more urgently, _“Virgil.”_

“I heard you the first time.”

“What in God’s name _happened to you_ last night?” Logan sounded so bewildered… but there was an edge to his voice. A frustration, maybe. Virgil shrugged his shoulders, and Logan huffed. “You _drank,_ you disappeared with Patton Moore for an hour, you came back looking like you got into a fist-fight…” Logan waited for an explanation. Virgil didn’t move. Again, Logan sighed. “Virgil. You said some… interesting things. Last night.”

That cracked Virgil’s shell and he muttered, “Did I?”

“Virgil,” Logan said his name with such fearful affection it nearly ripped Virgil’s heart out. Logan’s voice was quiet, as if the walls were listening-in and he had to be cautious. “Are you… are you in love with Patton Moore?”

Virgil didn’t take the cloth from his eyes. He didn’t want to see Logan’s face. He didn’t want to see the possible anger and disgust.

(Note: Logan was not glaring at him, nor was he disgusted… he was afraid of his best friend being hurt.)

Virgil took a breath and murmured, “Would you even believe me if I said no?”

“No,” Logan admitted. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then why the hell did you ask?” Virgil snapped, only to regret it when a sharp pain stabbed through his forehead. The was the sound of shifting fabric and the groan of the chair on the hardwood. Across the room, Logan sighed.

“I think I wanted to make sure I wasn’t imagining it. The way you looked at him.”

Virgil winced and held the cloth to his face a little harder. The warmth of his hand soaked through the fabric and the effect of the cold water was lost. Virgil grimaced. “Was I… was I that obvious?”

Logan didn’t respond. That was answer enough. Virgil slid down in the chair a little more. He was starting to regret coming over.

“Just… Virgil. You’re my closest friend.” A pause, and then, “We _are_ friends, aren’t we?”

Virgil took the cloth from his eyes and gave Logan a hard look. “Of course we are, you stupid bookworm.”

Logan smiled at the floor. “As friends… we can tell each other anything. Can’t we?”

Virgil stared at him. “‘Suppose so.”

Lifting his eyes, Logan met his stare halfway and held fast. “Please. Tell me what happened last night. You and Mr. Moore walked off… and you came back with this… this _shadow_ over your face. I’ve no better words to describe it. And earlier today, I went to tend to Mr. Kingsley, and I saw Mr. Moore.” Virgil looked away but Logan didn’t stop. “He had a bruise, Virgil. A _bruise_. Did you… did you tell him how you felt? Did you fight?”

Virgil’s eyes went wide. A bruise? How would that have… he shifted through his memories of the evening. He recalled the taste of wine. He remembered Patton crying. He remembered holding tight, a kiss that would’ve lasted centuries if they let it… Virgil sunk in his chair. He had pinned Patton to the wall. He bit at Patton’s neck and kissed so hard that it _might_ have left a bruise… had it? He hoped Patton didn’t remember how it happened.

Virgil’s voice was soft. “So that _did_ happen. It wasn’t a dream?” Logan nodded. Virgil crumbled in his chair a little more. “It’s fine. Nothing happened.”

“But—”

“Logan. Be my friend for a minute. And just… forget it. Nothing happened.”

Logan opened his mouth to say something sharp and angry… then his jaw clicked shut. He worried his hands together, looking like he didn’t fit where he sat. After an anxious moment, Logan sat back and announced, “I _hate_ parties.”

“You and me both,” Virgil grumbled. “Nothing but trouble.”

Logan glanced at him. “One question.”

“Shoot me before you ask,” Virgil deadpanned. Logan rolled his eyes.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Patton?” Virgil asked incredulously. Physically, Patton hadn’t done anything except kiss him and pull at his coat. But emotionally, Patton left him in the lurch. They were both drunk. It was a miracle that Virgil remembered it happened. Maybe… maybe Patton didn’t. That would be for the best. Not getting anyone’s hopes up. “No,” Virgil eventually lied. “He didn’t.”

Logan was quiet. “He looked terribly depressed, Virgil. Are you sure—”

“Nothing happened,” Virgil promised once more. Logan didn’t try to say otherwise, but he watched him. Pitying him. Virgil held the cool cloth in his hand, looked out the window, and sighed. “Nothing at all.”

+++++

“What?” Thomas pushed away from his computer, turned to Remus, and glared at him. He repeated, _“What?”_

Remus raised an eyebrow. “What _what?_ How could that conversation have _possibly_ confused you?”

“It’s stupid!” Thomas shouted, earning a Look from the ghost. “They both wanted each other! They _loved_ each other, so why? _What?_ _Why_ would he say nothing happened? It happened! They wanted something to happen! Why are they _like this!”_

“My, my…” Dee said where he was lurking in the corner. “He wakes up and starts _screaming_. It’s like telling a story to an infant.”

“Shut. Up.” Thomas glared at him, and Dee… he actually looked surprised. Thomas looked at Remus, seeing the amused grin on his face. “Why would they do that to each other? To _themselves_? _”_

Remus shrugged. “It was a difficult time. Dee and I were lucky.”

Dee huffed. “You were just headstrong, love.”

“Be that as it may!” Remus said loudly, “Virgil and Patton’s growth _means_ something to both Logan and Roman. It impacted the lot of them.”

Thomas sputtered. “But… but!”

Again, Dee sighed. “ _Goodness_ , you’re so worked up. Maybe we should take a break so you can calm down. We’ll let you go back to sleep, hmm? It _is_ nighttime after all.”

“No!” Thomas shouted. The ghosts stared at him. Thomas quietly put his hands in his lap, looked at the floor, and said, “I mean… it’s good. We’re good. I still want to know what happened. It just doesn’t seem fair that they did that to themselves.”

Remus cocked his head to the side. “Nothing in life is _fair_. It’s simply the flesh and blood raw reality of life. We stood among social necessities that were _unnecessary_. In that day… Virgil and Patton had every right to bury their feelings.”

Thomas gave him a hopeless look. “ _You_ didn’t.”

Remus smiled. “I was lucky. That’s all. If I were _unlucky,_ I wouldn’t be here.”

Thomas made a face. “But—”

“Do you want to go back to sleep, Thomas?” Dee asked again, a little tetchiness hidden in the back of his voice. “You’re getting all agitated again.”

“No. No, I’m fine.” Thomas ignored the pang in the pit of his stomach as he turned back to his computer and put his hands on the keys. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

+++++

The week turned over and Monday bled into Tuesday. The rain hadn’t stopped since Saturday night and didn’t seem keen on stopping now. Logan finished up with an elderly patient in low-town London, refused to take the last of his money, and stepped out into the rain.

No matter how much Logan tried to assure himself that he wasn’t concerned about Roman Kingsley, his thoughts always wandered back to him. As he walked, he wondered if Roman’s fever had faded. He hoped Roman rested and took care of himself. Roman was his patient and he was always hoping for good health… that must’ve been it. Logan didn’t have the time or the energy to be Roman Kingsley’s friend. It was exhausting trying _not_ to think about him. Being ‘friends’ would surely make it worse.

He’d hardly stepped out of the rain and into his office when a young boy dashed through the door and produced a letter from his pocket. Logan grimaced and paid the boy, shooing him back outside. He didn’t need all that dripping water on his floors. After he’d removed his sopping wet coat and hat, Logan unfolded the paper.

_Dr. Stein, Roman has taken a turn for the worse. Please come. Urgent._

_— Moore_

Logan took a breath, crumpled the note, and put his coat back on. Once again, he stepped into the rain. His shoes were soaked, and his trousers were soggy, but he wouldn’t deny a summons. If he did, his fellow doctors would complain about Roman’s patient-demeanor. Answering a request for Roman Kingsley himself would be best for all of them… or, at least that’s what he told himself.

When he arrived, Patton met him at the door and let him in with a flutter of his hands. His eyes were brighter than what they were on Sunday. The color was back in his cheeks. And, if Logan were whimsical, he might say that Patton had completely recovered. From what Logan knew, he and Virgil hadn’t spoken since the party. Perhaps that’s what they needed: _distance_.

“Oh, I’m glad you’re here,” Patton said quickly, his hands wringing as he took Logan’s coat. Logan had to drop his bag to allow Patton to remove his coat — what did he think he was, a maid? — and Patton hung the soaking-wet garment on the rack. Then he waved Logan up the stairs as he took his bag and lead him to Roman. “I’m sorry to call you out in this weather.”

Logan rolled up his soggy sleeves and shook the water from his glasses before he took the stairs. “I would’ve taken a carriage if they could’ve seen me through the rain.”

Patton hummed. “You weren’t too far, were you?”

“Went to low-town this morning,” Logan grumbled, seeing the way Patton glanced at him. “I happy to go to _them_ , rather than have an elderly man stumbling sick through the rain.”

Patton smiled sadly. “You’re a good doctor. Kind to go out in a spring storm.”

Logan waved that away and opened the door to Roman’s room. Right away, he felt the air was thick with humidity. The lantern that lit the room was dim and flickering softly. Roman, surprisingly, wasn’t at his easel. He was in bed, his breathing shallow and skin shining with sweat. Logan felt a bolt of panic as he went to Roman’s side.

“Mr. Kingsley,” he said gently, feeling the sides of Roman’s neck. His pulse fluttered routinely, but the pallor of his skin was troubling. Roman didn’t open his eyes.

“He’s been in and out of sleep all morning,” Patton said as he placed Logan’s bag on the floor next to the bed. He went for the washbasin on the bedstead, dipping a cloth in the cool water before wiping it over Roman’s face. Logan took the cloth from him, wiping at his cheeks, his eyes, and then his neck. Patton’s voice was a bit shaken as he said, “He said he saw the light of summer. And the Kingsley Summer Home through the window. I told him he was imagining things… but he seemed so certain.”

Logan frowned. “Hallucinations. If a fever is high enough, it can happen. Has he been coughing?”

“When he’s awake.”

“Vomiting?”

“No,” Patton said fearfully. “Please tell me he’ll be alright. I haven’t seen him this sick in _years._ ”

Logan grimaced and went for his bag. He listened to Roman’s lungs and heard that worrying crackle again. It had to _mean_ something, but in all his years of schooling, there hadn’t been a solid diagnosis for it. Still, he listened closely. The coughing, the fever, the hallucinations… it all had to coincide. One led into the other. Logan wetted the cloth again, carefully pushing Roman’s hair from his brow so he could wipe away the sweat the beaded across his temple.

With a steady hand, Logan undid the top three buttons of Roman’s shirt and wiped the cold cloth over fever-hot skin. The warmth rolled off him in waves, and Logan felt sorry for the pain.

“In my bag,” he told Patton, “I have a small, metal device. It looks like a box.”

While Patton went digging for the spring-loaded blade, Roman’s eyes fluttered open. He didn’t seem to see Logan. In fact, he didn’t even seem to know where he was. The first thing he said was: “Fire.” It wasn’t urgent. More of an observation as he stared, hazy and unseeing, at the ceiling. Then, like he needed to clarify, he whispered, “I’m on fire.”

“No, you’re not.” Logan took the box when Patton offered it, and he took one of Roman’s arms. He wiped his forearm with the cool cloth and said, “You’re sick, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman was quiet for a moment. Then, “Dr. Stein,” he whispered with a smile. His eyes flickered down, like he just noticed that Logan was sitting with him. He looked beside himself with relief. “Dr. Stein… Doctor… do you have a name?”

Logan made a face and held Roman’s arm. “You already _know_ my name, Mr. Kingsley. Surely, you heard it at the party on Saturday.”

Roman blinked sluggishly. “Did… did I?” The box opened, _clicked_ across Roman’s arm, and _snapped_ shut. Roman winced belatedly, looking down at the three, linear cuts before he breathed, “That hurt.”

“I don’t think it was designed to be pleasant,” Logan said gently. He cradled Roman’s arm carefully, letting the dark red blood drip down and away from him. Hopefully, this would help. There was little else Logan could do. Roman coughed a hoarse, aching cough, and Logan helped him sit up to breathe. “Slowly,” He said gently. Blood dripped from Roman’s arm and onto his trousers, but Logan didn’t mind. Patton came to his aid, holding the cold cloth to Roman’s arm while Logan let Roman lean forward and sag against him. “Breathe _slowly_. Quick breaths will make it worse.”

Roman clung to him with his good arm, grasping at Logan’s shoulder like he was a port in a storm. “Are you sure I’m not burning? Because… I can feel it. I close my eyes and I see… all these flames…”

Logan nodded at Patton when he brought out a roll of bandages. Patton wiped at the shallow cuts on Roman’s arm and started to wrap them. He held Roman steady with a hand on the back of his neck. 

“It’s the fever,” he promised gently. Roman rested his cheek on Logan’s shoulder and heaved a tired sigh. Patton fastened the bandages and looked up at Logan. “I think I can handle things from here, Mr. Moore.”

Patton nodded and stood, touching Roman’s shoulder as he said, “I’ll be downstairs for a while if you need anything.”

And then Patton was gone. Logan was left with Roman leaning against him in a pseudo-embrace. They were quiet. The rain on the rooftop provided an endless, tapping rhythm. The large canvas was still by the wall; the painting _looked_ like it could be finished. The sky was gray and light, the sea looked vast, and to the left, a clean, white house stood among the grass. Logan narrowed his eyes; was it the Summer Home that Patton had mentioned? Hadn’t Roman said the painting was based on autumn? At least, it’s what he said to Remus. And that was all Logan knew of it.

Roman sat back, followed his gaze, and frowned. “It’s missing something, isn’t it?” Logan wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Roman’s eyes went a little hazy again, and he murmured, “It looks like it’s melting. Is it melting?”

“No, it isn’t. Lie down, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman relaxed against the pillows, blinking up at his ceiling for a moment. “I feel cooler than before.”

“Blood loss does that,” Logan said quietly. Taking the clean handkerchief from his pocket, Logan dipped it in the cool water and wiped Roman’s brow. Roman smiled at him, and Logan felt a jolt in his chest. He tried to smother it… and failed. He brushed Roman’s hair from his brow. “I could give you some morphine. It’ll help you sleep.”

Roman laughed weakly. “Are you afraid I’ll try to get up and run? I don’t think I have it in me.”

Logan almost smiled. “I’m certain you’d be off and paining in a heartbeat if you could.”

“I would if I knew what was _missing_ ,” Roman sighed. He looked at Logan for a long while, then reached up to smooth back Logan’s hair. “You’re all out of sorts, my dear doctor.”

Logan gave him an unimpressed look. “I rushed here in the rain.”

Roman’s smile was sleepy and dreamy. The stars in his eyes glittered in the candlelight. “You braved a storm for me? And you allowed yourself to become _mussed_? I certainly feel special.”

“You should _rest_ rather than worry about my hair, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Rest?” Roman echoed softly, his voice almost lost under the sound of the rain. “And miss a chance to speak with my friend? What a notion.”

Logan blinked. “Your friend.”

“You,” Roman said calmly. “Unless you’ve forgotten? I thought we’d both agreed at Nathaniel’s party; we said we enjoyed each other’s company. Do you remember? It was a lovely night.”

He remembered. He remembered the floral smell of the gardens. The remembered the starlight in Roman’s hair. He remembered Roman’s head resting on his shoulder. He remembered. Logan looked away. “It was a _cold_ night.”

“It was lovely,” Roman said again with a smile on his face. “Because I was with you.”

“You… I…” Logan took a moment to collect himself. His face felt flushed. He felt uneasy. After a beat of silence, he said, “Honestly. Sometimes… the things you _say_.”

Roman looked at him sleepily. “Are they unwelcome?”

Logan thought for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.”

Roman went to say something else but was interrupted by a string of coughing. Logan pulled him upright, helping him breathe a little easier until he was ready to lie back again. When he did, he still held Logan’s hand like an object of comfort. Logan let him because… he wasn’t sure why. But Roman held his hand and Logan put another hand on his, like he needed to be held in place. Roman sighed, the very breath sounding rattled and exhausted as he closed his eyes.

“Stay with me a while?” He asked, hardly more than a whisper. Logan hesitated, and Roman murmured sleepily. “Just… just until I fall asleep?”

Logan squeezes Roman’s hand and said, “I’m sure I can spare the time, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman wouldn’t be able to hold of long against a fever like this. Logan would have to come back with more bloodletting. Until then, he took out some cough syrup, poured it on a spoon, and pressed it to Roman’s lips. Roman made a noise of confusion, and Logan murmured, “It’s for the cough.”

Without opening his eyes, Roman swallowed the medicine, coughed a bit, and then relaxed. His grip in Logan’s hand went slack. Ten minutes later, Roman Kingsley was fast asleep. Logan tucked his hand back under the blankets, wiped the sweat from his brow once more, and quietly left the room.

“Keep him warm,” Logan ordered Patton as he went down the stairs. Patton looked up at him, a pocket watch nestled in his palm before he tucked it away and met him at the foot of the staircase. “A fever like this might be sweated-out. If it persists, I’ll back to come back and bleed him. Until that’s necessary, keep him warm, don’t let the sweat on his face cool…” he handed the cough syrup to Patton. “And make sure he gets a spoonful of this tonight before you go to sleep. Once more in the morning.”

Patton smiled warmly. “You’re very kind, Dr. Stein.”

Logan quirked an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Roman normally can’t stand doctors, but you must be something else entirely if you can get him to be quiet and lay down.”

“I’m simply a doctor, Mr. Moore.”

Patton laughed. “Not an angel?”

Logan didn’t laugh. “I don’t believe in angels, Mr. Moore.”

“Even so,” Patton said, “You’re a blessing on this house.”

“I don’t believe in blessings either,” Logan said stiffly. “If blessings and angels and God were real, sickness would not prevail. There would be no need for doctors. The world would be kind.”

Patton listened, though he clearly wasn’t convinced. “It’s not, is it? Kind. The world, I mean. It isn’t.”

“My point exactly, Mr. Moore.”

“Which is why,” Patton continued, catching Logan on his way down the front steps. “Which is why... we create our own little miracles. We ourselves choose to be kind. To care for others. Our own brand of blessings. It’s... humanity is at its finest when kindness can be found in the crowd.”

Logan blinked, opened his mouth to counter this statement... and then shut it. There was nothing to gain by dashing warm thoughts like this. He smoothed a hand over his coat and gave Patton a polite inclination of his head.

“Make sure he takes the syrup, Mr. Moore. Good afternoon.”

“I will,” Patton promised where he stood in the front door with a smile. “Good afternoon, Dr. Stein.”

Logan headed back to his office feeling, of all things, blessed. Blessed by Patton’s smile. Blessed by Roman’s lingering stare. Blessed by the fact it was only chance, only a twist of fate, that he was brought to that apartment at all, those short weeks ago. Blessings weren’t real. Angels didn’t exist. Logan sniffed and raised his chin a bit as he walked through the pouring rain.

Still, Roman Kingsley lingered in his thoughts like a stain on a jacket long forgotten. Quiet, smug, and persistent. He was excitement and life and laughter... he was creativity. A wildness locked inside a body that simply didn’t want to comply. If Roman weren’t so frail, Logan had no doubt that he would be tearing through the city like a force of nature to rival his brother. The thought was staggering; two Remus’s. One was more than enough. Having two would make Logan’s hair go gray.

Roman Kingsley, a man with vision. Roman Kingsley, a suave bachelor with no sense of propriety. Roman Kingsley, the man who dominated Logan’s thoughts as he walked. Roman Kingsley... a blessing, or a curse?

Logan shook his head with a tired smile. He was neither. Curses didn’t exist.

Crossing the street, he went into his office fully intending to do some reading before his next house call. He tried. He really did. He sat with his book, looked at the words, and frowned thoughtfully at the page. But he didn’t read.

He didn’t read because he could only think of Roman. The way he looked at Logan. The way he had reacted to Logan’s honesty. The raw, honest empathy that radiated from him. The way emotion turned Logan’s stomach and made him set his book aside.

By the time he had to leave, Logan had come to a conclusion. If angels, in their unrealistic and wholly unimaginable existence, were in fact real, he wouldn’t be one at all. He was a human with thoughts and intents that were very much mortal. But Roman? Oh, Roman. If angels were real... they would most likely resemble Roman Kingsley.

+++++

With a sigh, Thomas sat back. “Okay… okay, so Logan is starting to warm up to Roman. That’s good, right?”

Silence came back to him. Thomas turned, expecting Dee to be watching him from the doorway. He wasn’t. The house was quiet aside from the house’s traditional settling, grumpy sounds. The walls creaked tiredly like the support beams needed to complain. The windows rattled irritably. Outside, it begun to rain halfway through Remus’s monologue.

Thomas sighed again and saved the document. It was the middle of the night and Thomas was wide awake. So, he pushed away from his desk, glanced around the room (neither Remus or Dee reappeared), shrugged, and left the room.

Outside, the rain fell hard. Thomas went to the kitchen, made himself a snack, and wandered the halls for a bit. He had to make himself tired or he’d never be able to sleep at night again. He wondered where Remus and Dee went when they disappeared. He wondered where they went during the day. He looked at portraits and paintings that Remus had made… all of them had been labeled by the historical society with names and dates under the paintings. All were painted by Remus or other, fellow-acclaimed artists… the only painting by Roman was the one in the dining room. The one of the sea-side house. Thomas ate the last bite of his sandwich and kept walking.

That’s when he heard it: the distinct sound of someone crying.

Maybe it was Remus. Maybe it was Dee. Maybe Thomas had lost all sense of self-preservation when he learned he was living with ghosts. Either way, he followed the sound to the west wing of the house. The lighting was dimmer there, kept low to preserve the oil paintings. But Thomas could see a person at the end of the hall. Their face was in their hands. They cried quietly, like they were trying to hide it. If he were the character of a horror-film, Thomas would already be dead.

“Hello?” He asked, trying to approach the stranger. They were covered in shadow, but it was clear it wasn’t Remus or Dee. Another ghost? How many ghosts were in this house? Thomas approached carefully. “Excuse me… can... can you hear me?”

The closer he got, the more detail he could see. He saw hair that was slightly curly. He saw a grey Victorian-style vest. He saw black trousers. The man was turned away from Thomas.

“Hello?” Thomas asked again. 

He stopped a few steps away, hoping he wouldn’t scare the man. Which was ironic. This was obviously another ghost. Ghosts were supposed to scare _him_. The man flinched anyway, looking at Thomas with wide, terrified blue eyes that were still full of tears. Thomas stared; the light-brown, curly hair, the round glasses, the fine clothes… it all fit. 

“Patton?” He asked. The man’s eyes went wide. “Patton Moore?”

Patton’s hands were shaking. The tears didn’t stop. He turned to Thomas… and held out his hands. Hands that were covered in blood. “Please,” he whispered shakily, “Please, I… I can’t find Virgil. I… can you help me?”

Thomas reached for him. He didn’t know what happened. How could a ghost he covered in blood? Was this some sort of delusion? Was he dreaming? He didn’t know what to do. It was a bolt out of the blue. Outside, the storm picked up and the window howled. Lightning struck nearby. The lights buzzed and flickered… and then Patton Moore was gone. The hall was empty.

Thomas was alone.

+++++

The first time Clara kissed Patton goodbye was on a Friday. He had been holding her, promising that he would come see her the next day, and she kissed his cheek and told him goodnight. It was a startling bonding moment, but Patton smiled and tucked her into bed. Once she was comfortable, Patton kissed her hair, wished her goodnight, and was met with _immediate_ demands from the other children. He was tucking children in and kissing foreheads for nearly twenty minutes before he could leave. Amelia stares at him from the doorway.

He really had to do something about her.

But when he left, it was late. It wasn’t often that he stayed late at the orphanage… and that was fine. It didn’t make much of a difference to him. Really, any kind of Workplace Duty in his family business would take place in the morning, during Serena’s prime-time moments of yelling. Mother would like to talk over morning tea, anyway. So, evenings left Patton to his devices.

As he turned up his collar against the rain, Patton shivered. He felt something on him. A weight… but not physical. Like someone was staring. He’d felt that same stare every time he’d left the orphanage that week. And, like always, Patton pivoted, looked back at the empty, rain-fogged streets, and saw no one. It was probably the rain that was getting to him. Summer was just around the corner and Patton missed sunlight… he was just paranoid with all the gray skies.

So, he continued his trek through the city, winding through streets that he’d memorized many years ago. He knew where he was going. The purpose was heavy in his pocket.

His father had _lied_ about their business. He’d said that everyone who worked for them was happy. He said that they were the only Good people in all of London. Sure, Patton was little at the time. Yes, his father was humoring him. And of course, none of it was true. But his father never wavered, even as Patton grew older and wiser. He’d stood by his statement: they were the Good People in London. Everybody else were liars and cheats.

He lied, and Patton had never forgotten it. Patton _couldn’t_ forget it; because of his father, families had gone hungry. Children had starved. Expecting mothers wore thin. Men shouted and ultimately begged for their wages. And Patton’s father stood firm.

“We are the Good Folk,” he said to Patton over supper. He nodded to himself as Patton glared at him across a fifteen-foot table. His father had smiled and raised his glass. “To the Moore’s! The last good family of London!”

Patton had snapped that night. He had pushed his plate to the ground and let it shatter. He stood up and shouted. His father’s smile fell. His face turned to stone. Patton used to think he held the world in his hands. He used to be a model citizen… when did he become so small? When did he turn into a monster?

Patton couldn’t remember.

He left the house in a storm. He remembered his sister yelling after him… and his mother crying… and his father, sitting silent at the table. He never called for Patton to stop. Patton ran across the city to the Kingsley home. He slammed his hands against the door and cried until a maid, the poor girl, opened it and looked at him with wide, scared eyes.

Edward Kingsley, Roman and Remus’s father, descended the stairs calmly. He gently took the maid aside and told her to take the night off. Then, just as gentle, he brought Patton into the house. He didn’t shout or demand explanations. He simply took Patton into his personal study and sat him down.

Patton had gone quiet by then, too tired to shed any more angry tears. Edward stared at him.

“Are you alright?” He asked, level and steady among Patton’s roiling thoughts. Patton looked up at him, and Edward smiled. “Young man, are you alright?”

Patton swallowed thickly. “No,” he said honestly. “No. My father is a cheat. And a liar. He… he’s ruining lives, and I…”

Edward nodded, his expression pitying. “Jacob wants desperately to be a good man.”

Patton glared and removed his glasses. The world went blurry and he didn’t care. “My father lied.”

“Many people do.”

“It’s _wrong_ ,” Patton said, looking up at the head of the Kingsley household. He was blurry. Patton put on his glasses and looked at neatly trimmed brown hair and a finely embroidered vest. His mustache curled around his frown, and Patton lowered his eyes again. “I don’t… I wish…”

Edward sat forward and folded his hands on his desk. “And now… what will _you_ do?”

Patton stared at him. “I want to make things better. I want our workers to be paid fairly. I want… I want…”

Edward folded his hands under his chin and hummed. “I can teach you a fair amount about the business world. But… I have to ask.” His brown eyes cut through Patton. “Why did you come here?”

“Because…” Patton fidgeted with his hands and sniffed sadly. “Because I had nowhere else to go.”

There was a knock at the door and Patton turned to see Lillian Kingsley, Roman and Remus’s mother, step into the room. She saw Patton, smiled, and then looked at her husband. “Has he eaten supper?”

Patton banished his eyes to the floor. Edward chuckled. “I think that’s a ‘no.’ Lily, tell Roman that Patton is here. I’m sure he’ll want to sit with him while he eats.”

Patton twitched. “I… I couldn’t let you… you don’t have to give me anything. Really. I… more than anything, I only want refuge.”

Lillian took his arm and brought him to the door anyway. “Nonsense. A fourteen-year-old boy runs out of his house without having supper and we’re supposed to let him starve? Perish the thought.”

She tucked Patton’s arm into her own and walked him to the dining room. Her dress was dark and heavy… but she moved with grace. Her golden hair — starting to show silver in some places — was pinned nicely. As they passed a maid, Lillian told her to call Roman down to the dining room. She was soft with the workers… just like Patton’s mother. He suddenly missed her very much.

“I’m sorry,” he said, earning a look from Lillian. “For intruding.”

“You aren’t, darling. I promise.” Lillian sat him down at the head of the table and called for some food to be brought. Then, she sat with him. The grandfather clock against the wall ticked routinely. Patton sniffled, And Lillian smiled sadly. “You know, if you keep making that face, you’ll never smile again.”

Patton looked at her with watery eyes. “I don’t feel much like smiling, Lady Kingsley.”

Lillian reached out to brush a thumb over his cheek, wiping away a stray tear as she said, “It’ll all turn out well in the end. You’ll see. Every story has a silver lining.”

Patton took a shuddery breath. “But… does it really? Or are you just trying to soothe me?”

Lillian patted his cheek fondly. It was the last time she would speak to Patton like this before she fell ill. In retrospect, Patton wishes he’d said more. Done more. Thanked her for anything and everything. Lillian Kingsley smiled and said, “My dear boy… even poison can make good medicine if used properly.”

After that, Roman and Remus had burst into the room demanding explanations. They sat with him. Snacked on the fruit and bread that was brought to the table. Patton smiled and laughed with them, and for a while, he forgot that the world was a cruel place. For a while, he was with the last _truly_ Good Family in London.

But that was all in the past. A fond, ghostly memory that lingered as Patton walked through the mist and rain. It was hardly more than a drizzle now. It had been raining all week. This was like a slight fermata, a small pause before the rain decided the stop. Patton walked through the gates of the cemetery, walking a path that he’d seldom walked before.

He didn’t like visiting his father. But even if he was a liar and cheat, he was _still_ Patton’s father. So, Patton wiped at the mist on his glasses, sniffled at the cold, and walked on. Some gravestones were simple, some were carved with angels. Mausoleums dotted the cemetery, ticking the boxes of the wealthy elite and their family members. Patton walked past many of them, coming to a stop at the Moore family mausoleum. It was square. Simple and just large enough to step inside and avoid the rain. Patton hadn’t visited since his father passed seven years prior.

The watch, given to him by his mother, had changed things. Apparently, his father wanted him to have it. His mother had been too nervous to hand it over. Patton didn’t mind. It was just a keepsake. One that burned in his hand when he held it.

He went to the stone slab that marked his father, pulled out the parcel… and unwrapped the watch. It was fine work. Virgil was an artist. Patton felt a pang of want bolt through him… but he smothered it down. He placed the watch on the stone. It shone oddly in the faint lamplight that reached the cemetery.

“Rest in peace, you greedy old man.”

Patton had little else to say. He stood, shook the water from his coat, and stepped outside once more. Already, he felt _lighter_ and less burdened his father’s memory. He was making important strides forward, turning his business into one of the _actually_ good businesses. His workers were happy. The wages were more than fair. Serena despised him. It was all working out for the best.

Exiting the cemetery, Patton felt that strange, prickly feeling once more. He paused, turned, and saw a figure lingering in the fog further down the street. There was a flicker of discomfort… but Patton brushed it aside. He was hardly the only person walking along the street at this time of night. There was nothing to be gained from suspicion. He pulled his coat close and turned his back to the rain as he sought out a path home. The air was still and the mist was the only thing that churned the fog. Patton walked slow, breathing in the cool spring air.

And then he heard uneven footsteps behind him.

He turned again, saw the dark shape of a man in the shadows, and frowned. It was closer now. The man was _following_ him. Patton looked around for the light of a policeman’s lantern. But there were no bullseyes around. He was alone, in the dark, with only the fragile, flickering light of the streetlamps to light his way.

Patron started to walk a little faster. The rain made his overcoat heavy and the back of his neck was freezing with chills. But he hunched his shoulders and walked.

“Oi!” The stranger called to him, loud and echoing through the street. Patton, against all inclination to do otherwise, stopped. He glanced over his shoulder, and the man was getting closer. “You there!”

Patton narrowed his eyes and turned to face the man who was still a dark shape in the fog as he approached.

“You!” The man shouted again. He sounded drunk. A beggar? It wouldn’t be uncommon, especially not on the late streets of London. Patton almost turned to make a hasty retreat should the man turn violent… but the next words stopped him. “The flounce who took my daughter!”

Patton blinked. His daughter. Patton’s eyes went wide. This man couldn’t be Clara’s father… could it? The man stepped into the circular arc of the street lamplight. He saw wild red hair. _Clara’s_ red hair. He saw crazed eyes and steps that stumbled. And large hands ready to choke the life out of him. Patton took a feeble step back, but the man didn’t stop there.

“You’re the bastard that took my girl!”

Patton couldn’t deny it before the man grabbed his collar and punched him hard enough for Patton to see stars. He stumbled back and his arms moved on their own accord, holding the man back as he went for another swing. He was big. Violent. This man scared Patton… he could only imagine how scared Clara must’ve been.

“She’s _my_ girl, you hear?” He growled in Patton’s ear as they struggled. Patton tried to twist and get away, but the man grabbed his coat collar and pulled him back. Patton writhed anyway, twisting until he was free of his coat. He ran, but the man grabbed him before he got too far. He got Patton up against the brick wall that lined the cemetery and he punched him in the gut. Patton wheezed and doubled over, but the man didn’t want to stop there. He scrambled for Patton, too drunk and disoriented to aim properly as he did. “Clara’s _my_ girl and I get to do what I _want_ wit’ her!” Patton looked up at him, horrified, and the man huffed in his face with a breath that smelled like spiced rum. “A man gets lonely. Who says a little girl can’t help ‘im along?”

Patton’s eyes went wide. His body moved on its own. He grabbed he man by the throat and _squeezed_. He punched until he couldn’t feel his hands. Hot blood spurted out beneath his fists. He didn’t stop. His vision was entirely red. He smashed until he could breathe again. He punched until the man was limp on the ground… and then Patton beat him some more. He kicked and spat and punched… but none of it was good enough. None of it would erase what that sick man had done to Clara. None of it was good enough. But he tried his damnedest.

And when he was done, the man was limp on the ground. Patton stood up I’m shaking legs. He breathed heavily, his breath clouding the air as he looked down at the bloody mess he’d made. Clara’s father didn’t move. Patton wondered if he ever would again. The mist swirled around him… and Patton let regret and fear seep into his bones. 

Then he turned away, looked in the direction of Virgil’s shop, and started to walk.

+++++

Despite what Virgil wanted to think, something had _happened_ between Patton and himself. The proof was in the pudding: Patton hadn’t come to see him all week. Even if he didn’t want something, Patton would call on him or visit his shop. Just to see him. Just to _speak_ with him. But now, there was a strange, open gap in their interactions.

Patton was _avoiding_ him.

This meant that Patton remembered. This meant that Patton _knew._ It tore at Virgil’s gut and made him sick as he worked on an engraving. Patton was probably disgusted… Virgil _had_ initiated it. He’d overstepped. And now he was paying the price. Patton didn’t want to see him anymore and he had to accept it.

So, he worked hard and did long nights. He engraved roses on the backs of otherwise perfect items and shapes on others. He had little else to do, but if he went upstairs and laid down, he’d only think of Patton. A man could only take so many lonely nights of shameful one-person activities. So he worked. He hunched over his desk and glared at pieces of silver. He coughed and the pain was gratifying. But try as he might, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from shifting to Patton.

Where was he? Was he angry with Virgil? Was he upset? Perhaps he was telling people about Virgil’s behavior. He could’ve been putting Virgil’s name on a blacklist that very moment. Virgil sighed; no, that wasn’t like Patton. Patton was a kind, open man. It was a mistake, both of them knew it, and now they had to move on. If that involved Virgil being alone and stewing in his shop into the late hours, so be it. Maybe… someday, somehow, Patton would come to see him again.

A rattling at his shop door startled him. He looked up, ready to see someone trying to jimmy the door open… but it was dark. There wasn’t a lamp near his shop, and the only light inside was the glass lantern on his workbench. Virgil stared into the darkness outside his shop window for a moment, trying to force his eyes to adjust and absorb something… but there was nothing. It was just the wind.

Virgil sighed and looked down again. He’d been engraving a rose into a silver locket. He scratched the metal incorrectly. It was ruined. He sighed again.

And something _slammed_ against his door. It was only once, but it was enough to startle Virgil out of his chair. He took off his glasses and picked up the lantern. Whoever was outside his door was obviously trying to get his attention. Why didn’t they call for him? Maybe it was a drunk. Virgil grabbed a hammer from a nearby shelf and approached the door.

Then he stopped.

Through the glass door, he saw Patton. His gray vest was stained red. His hands, curled close to his chest, were covered in blood. It was on his face, his sleeves, his hair… where was his coat? Virgil dropped the hammer and wrenched open the door.

“Patton!” He grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside. Patton was shaking. His eyes were wide and terrified. “What… _who_ …” He looked around the empty, foggy streets… and saw no one.

“Virgil.” Patton’s voice was shaking just as hard as he was. “ _Virgil_ … I think… I think I’ve made a mistake.”

Virgil closed the door and locked it. Then, he sat Patton down. He was _trembling_ … Virgil took a rag and started wiping at his face. There were no cuts. His nose was bleeding… but there was too much blood for it to be _his._ Virgil wiped at it anyway, trying to find the source.

“What…” Virgil looked at his hands. The knuckles were split and covered in blood. Not his, though. It was someone else’s. Patton was covered in a stranger’s blood. Feeling himself rattle with panic, Virgil took Patton’s shoulders and tried to meet his wide, shocked eyes. “Patton. What _happened_ to you?”

Patton looked at him, wide-eyed and still alarmed. He looked down at his hands. “He… he was going to…” He looked back to Virgil. “I’m not a violent man. I’m… I don’t fight. I was… I was always too soft. Serena would kick and bite… but I never raised a hand. I was too scared.”

Virgil licked his lips. Patton’s eyes were so unfocused. Blood was spattered on the lenses of his glasses. Did he not know what happened? “Patton…”

“But I know!” Patton said suddenly. “I _know_ the difference between… between right and wrong. And that man… that man was _wrong._ The things he said. The things he said about… about _Clara._ About what he would… what he would _do…_ ”

Virgil cupped Patton’s cheeks and forced their eyes to meet. “Patton, love, just… tell me. What happened? Who did this to you?”

“I did,” Patton gasped, more horrified than Virgil. _“I did this.”_ He was still shaking like a leaf in the wind as he looked at his hands. Virgil had wiped away some of the blood, but the skin on his knuckles was still cracked and bleeding. Virgil put the cloth over them and held Patton’s hands. Patton shuddered, looked up at Virgil and whispered, “I… I didn’t know what to do. Where to go. I came here because… because you always… _always_ make me feel safe, but… but. Oh, god…” Patton’s eyes filled with tears. “What if I _killed_ him?”

Virgil stopped and stared. “You… _you_ did this. All this blood… you…”

“Virgil,” Patton whispered desperately. “I’m not a violent man, but I... think I’ve done something… _horribly_ wrong.”

“Okay,” Virgil said, trying to keep the tremble from his voice. “O… okay. We can… this… are you hurt?”

Patton blinked and a few tears rolled down his cheeks as he said, “No? I don’t… I don’t think I am. My… my hands.” He looked down at the cloth Virgil had put to them. The white fabric was already turning pink. “I can’t feel my hands.”

Virgil went into a series of damage-control questions. He grabbed his coat, pulling it on as he said, “Did anyone see you come this way?”

Patton blinked, still trembling where he sat. “I don’t think…”

“Where did you leave the man who attacked you?”

“On the ground,” Patton said distantly. “Outside the cemetery.”

“Which one?” Virgil pressed. Patton looked at him, and Virgil gave up. “You’re _sure_ no one saw you like this? If they did, people will talk.”

Patton looked at his hands again. “I don’t know. I don’t…” Patton’s voice caught, and more tears fell. “My hands _hurt_ … why does it hurt now?”

“Look at me.” Virgil went to him, took Patton’s chin, and forced their eyes to meet. “Patton. _Look at me_.”

Patton caught his breath. “I am.”

“You were with me all night,” said Virgil. There was no room for argument. Patton’s brow furrowed, and Virgil said, “If anyone asks where you were… you were here, in the shop, with me. All night. I’ll tell them the same.”

Patton gave him a hopeless look. “But… but I was at the orphanage before—”

“You came _straight to me_.” Virgil looked him in the eye, making sure the words sunk in. “You never saw that man. You came here, we had a bit to drink, and you hurt yourself on my tools. You _never_ saw that man.”

Patton’s eyes overflowed again. “Virgil… I… I…!”

Virgil wiped away his tears with a handkerchief and draped his nice evening coat over Patton’s shoulders. “It’s alright,” he promised. “It’s okay.” He picked Patton up, pulled the coat closed as much as he could to cover the blood stains, and walked him out the door. “Let’s have someone look at your hands.”

+++++

Logan was enjoying a quiet evening. The kind where he could sit back and read for a while before he turned in for the night. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and he was left with a rain-cool clinic and a subtly lit office. It was nice to have time to himself. He’d been mostly unbothered all day. Virgil had gone back to working long, stressful days and had no time to visit. Roman had been recovering and hadn’t called for him since Wednesday.

He wouldn’t call himself _lonely,_ but he wasn’t completely happy to be alone. Still, he could read and that was a small blessing. He sat down at his desk and produced a small book from his pocket. A book of poetry. Roman had given it to him some time ago, insisting that it was a “wonderful art that everyone should know!” Logan wasn’t sure if that was true, but he wouldn’t turn down a book when it was offered. That would be rude.

So he sat, opened the book, and was surprised to read the poetry was written by none other than Roman Kingsley himself. And it was a thick little book… how many poems were in it? How much time did it take to write it? Logan pursed his lips and turned to the first poem.

And someone knocked on his door. More than a little irritated, Logan slammed his book shut and went to the door. Couldn’t medical emergencies wait until morning? He sighed; now he was being _too_ bitter. Trying to seem more professional than bothered, Logan opened the door… and paused.

It was Virgil. Virgil _and_ Mr. Moore tucked under his arm. Patton wore one of Virgil’s coats over his shoulders… but Logan saw blood on the front of his vest. His hands were swaddled in a red-stained cloth. Logan looked up at Virgil, and Virgil gave him a grave look.

“I need a favor.”

Logan took a breath, looked at Patton’s wide, unfocused eyes, and stepped aside. “Come in before someone sees you.”

Virgil took Patton to the nearest chair and sat him down. He was gentle. So gentle, like Patton would tear like paper if he pulled hard enough. Logan watched this happen quietly. Hadn’t something _happened_ between the two of them at that damn party? Was all of that forgotten because Patton had gotten into some kind of fight?

Logan rolled up his sleeves and went for his clean rags and some water. When he sat down in front of Patton, he took Patton’s chin and forced their eyes to meet. “Mr. Moore. Do you know where you are?”

Patton stared at him… or possibly through him. “Your clinic. I’ve never been here before. Not myself.”

Logan nodded, eyeing the red welt in Patton’s cheek. It would bruise badly tomorrow. He looked down at Patton’s hands and took the cloth away. His knuckles were swollen and bloody. He frowned. “Mr. Moore… what happened to you?”

Patton blinked and seemed to come back to himself. “He… he hit me first. And I know… I know I shouldn’t have done it. I know I shouldn’t have…” Patton looked at his hands. “He was going to touch her. He was going to… put his hands on her and…”

Logan looked at Virgil, but Virgil didn’t meet his eye. He was looking at Patton, the concern written so bold and obvious in his face it was almost blinding. With a sigh, Logan took one of Patton’s hands and inspected it carefully. The skin was split deep… something sharp cut through there. A bone? A tooth? Logan glanced up again.

“You got into a fight." It wasn’t a question. Patton swallowed thickly.

“I had to stop him. I… I had to stop him.”

“So, you beat him half to death,” Logan said darkly. That earned him a glare from Virgil, but he ignored it. “I’m going to have to stitch this closed. As for your knuckles…” he pressed down and felt something crunch against bone. Patton shouted, kicked his leg, and ultimately buried his face in Virgil’s chest when Virgil pulled him close. Logan sighed. “Several are broken. I’ll have to wrap your hands as well.”

“If you had seen him,” Patton gasped where he pressed his nose against Virgil neck. His eyes were wide and scared again, like he’d been an innocent bystander to the whole situation as he whispered, “What he _said_. He said…” Patton trailed off and shuddered.

Logan carefully wiped away the excess blood before he poured a healthy amount of alcohol over the cut. Patton shouted again and pulled at his hand. Logan ground his teeth and snapped, “Hold still!”

Patton looked at him and shouted back, _“It hurts!”_

Before Logan could kick him out of his damn clinic, Virgil took Patton’s face and turned him away from Logan. Their eyes met, and Virgil gave him a soft smile. “Breathe. It’s alright. It’s going to hurt, but it’ll help.”

Patton’s eyes filled with tears. “I… didn’t _mean_ to, I…”

“Tell me about Clara,” Virgil said gently. His thumb brushed over Patton’s cheek. Intimate and calming. Logan gritted his teeth; after everything they’d been through, after beating a man so badly he broke his own knuckles, Virgil still _wanted_ Patton? With a grimace, Logan worked on threading a sterile needle. While he did, Patton spoke in soft, shuddering words.

“She… she looks like summertime. Beautiful red hair and a smile like sunshine.” Patton took a breath as Logan pulled the first stitch, and he closed his eyes tight. “Clara… Clara’s eyes are such a light brown, they’re almost gold. She… she likes to sing but I can’t _for the life of me_ figure out what she’s trying to sing. She likes to be held, and she’s so light you’d think you were holding a bag of feathers.”

Virgil smiled at him gently. “She sounds wonderful.”

Logan glanced at him. Virgil ignored it, and Patton said, “She _is._ The most wonderful little girl.” Logan pulled another stitch and Patton hissed painfully. He looked at his hands, paled, and looked away. His voice was soft when he said, “I… I’d thought he was just violent. I thought she was scared of him yelling or…” Patton frowned. “But that wasn’t it. It was so much _worse_. That… that man put his hands on a _child._ That thought struck me and I… I just… hit him.”

Logan shook his head, but Virgil said, “How did it feel?”

“Good,” Patton said darkly. “It felt _good_. Because he deserves it. But I… I went too far, didn’t I?”

Virgil opened his mouth to say no, but Logan quickly said: “Yes. You did.”

Virgil looked at him. “Logan…”

“No proper man beats a man within an inch of his life when reporting him to a constable would have worked much better.” Logan started wrapping Patton’s right hand, ignoring the whimpers that came him. He wrapped them tight so the knuckles wouldn’t shift. “You were reckless and wild.”

Patton said nothing in his defense. Virgil, however, sat forward and snapped, “Logan, do you hear yourself? This man was _attacking_ a child. A _child_.”

Logan looked at him. “Then why stoop to his level? Yes, he was a monster. But why become one in his stead?” He looked to Patton. “You should’ve found a policeman.”

Patton opened his mouth, but Virgil didn’t let him speak. “Logan, do you _really_ think those bastards would’ve done something about a man from the _low-town?”_ Logan pinned the wrappings and moved to the next hand. Patton was quiet and Virgil said: “With all the shite we got away with… you think they’d step up this time? You think anything would’ve _changed?”_

Logan huffed. “I’ve grown since then, Virgil. I’ve _matured_.”

“Matured right out of your morality,” grumbled Virgil. Logan glared at him and pinned the last of the wrappings on Patton’s left hand. His nose had been bloodied but not broken. His vest was ruined. Logan couldn’t do anything about that.

“Expect a bill for these services in the post,” Logan said stiffly as he rose to his feet. Patton said nothing. Logan turned away and went to wash his hands. “Good evening, Mr. Moore.”

“Thank you, Dr. Stein,” Patton replied numbly. He started to stand, ready to leave, but Virgil pushed him back into the chair and stalked after Logan.

_“What_ ,” Virgil hissed as they stood over the washbowl, “The _Hell_ is your problem?”

Logan didn’t look up from where he scrubbed blood from his hands. “I’m not well-verse in carrying for gentleman who conduct themselves like _thugs_.”

“Big talk coming from _you._ Didn’t you kick in someone’s teeth when they tried to rob your mother’s grave?”

Logan ground his teeth and gave Virgil a sharp look. “I was _young_ and _foolish._ Patton Moore is educated and well-connected. But tonight? He acted like an _animal._ Just look at him!”

Patton shrank where he sat, and Virgil loomed over Logan like it would scare him. It didn’t. Logan was used to Virgil’s height. Still, he stood there and glared as he hissed, “That man was threatening to go after that little girl, and you’re upset with _Patton?”_ Logan stared at him, unmoved, and Virgil stood back with a shake of his head. “When we were in the gutter, you stood up for people. Everyone. Where did your compassion go? Your sense of justice?”

Logan glared at him. “I left it _in the gutter._ Only fools and drunks go around thinking they can change the world with their fists.”

“You know he did this for a _child_ , right? To _save a little girl.”_

"There were better ways to do it!" Logan leaned close and hissed, “I’m not risking my reputation for a man who _beats_ the darkest of people into submission.”

Virgil took another step back. Then another. He looked cold and distant. Quietly, he helped Patton to his feet and led him to the door. Once Patton was outside and wrapped carefully in Virgil’s coat, Virgil leaned back in the doorway and said, “Go ahead and stick to that mentality of yours, Logan. I hope the devil keeps good company.”

Logan felt anger bubble up in him and he turned and shouted, “Get out of my clinic!”

Virgil glowered at him. “With pleasure.”

He slammed the door shut so hard the windows rattled. Logan glared after him with plenty of other angry things to shout… but he didn’t chase them. No, Virgil had gotten the last word. Even so, Logan burned with anger. He grabbed the wash basin and threw it across the room with a frustrated, growling shout. Water spilled everywhere and the tin hit the floor and rolled sadly.

Logan was a gentleman. Gentleman didn’t throw tantrums. And yet, there he was, huffing and puffing in his office like he was going to tear the room apart. Patton had been wrong… but he’d also been right. Logan felt irritation sizzle under his skin.

The man Patton had beaten. That man had done… _what_ to a child?

Taking his coat, Logan turned up the collar and stalked out into the rain.

“Virgil!” He shouted at the top of his lungs. The street was empty. Mist rolled along the pavement. There was a long stretch of silence. 

And then: “What the _fuck_ do you want?”

Logan took a breath and shouted, “Where is he?”

Another long pause. They were sure to be troubling the neighbors. But both were too stubborn to walk through the mist and find one another. No, they were too angry for that. The burn was still fresh. So, Logan waited. 

Then, Virgil’s voice came through the mist: “Highgate!”

Logan said nothing more. He turned on his heel, put his hands in his pockets and headed for Highgate Cemetery. When he and Virgil were younger (and more rambunctious) they would sneak into Highgate looking for vampires and ghosts. Logan had outgrown ghosts and ghouls… but not monsters. If Virgil told him the right place, then there _would_ be a monster waiting near Highgate. If Patton has indeed beaten the man to death, Logan could take his body to a medical college and sell the body to the professor. Corpses were always in demand and no one asked questions; Logan’s own teacher was guilty of taking these conspicuously received bodies. The school had a demand and society met it with the most heinous of methods.

Logan stalked the streets carefully, keeping out of the lamplight and avoiding people who were wandering about; if no one saw him, there would be no recollection of his being near the body. No one would know he was involved.

When he neared Highgate, he saw the gleam of a constable’s bullseye. The light fell on a body of a man. Logan sped up and reached into his pocket.

Keeping his chin down, Logan avoided letting the officer see his face as he said, “Take a walk.”

The officer looked at him, and the light was turned on him. The officer snorted, “‘Scuse me?”

Logan pulled a large note from his pocket. “Take a walk.”

The officer hesitated… and took the note. “What’s this man to you?”

Logan hesitated and looked down at the crumpled form of the man. He was bloody. Missing several teeth. But he was _breathing_ and that’s what mattered. Logan murmured, “He’s a liability.” Then, he took out another note and handed it to the officer. “You never saw him.”

The officer looked at the note. “Didn’t I?”

Logan ground his teeth and added another note. “No, you didn’t.”

The officer took the money, tipped his hat, and walked away whistling. “Lovely night, ain’t it?”

Logan glared at the officer. So easily corrupted. But it was for the best. If he _wasn’t_ corruptible, Logan wouldn’t be able to drag the man into the alley without being noticed. When they were safely in the shadows, Logan knelt and dressed his wounds. He didn’t clean them, but he stuffed a rag into his mouth and wrapped linen around his jaw. That covered the cuts and scrapes that Patton had given him. When he was done, Logan reached down, picked up the man by his lapels, and shook him until his eyes opened. He wreaked of sweat and alcohol… and now, of the briny stench of blood. The man looked at him and Logan fixed him with a dark stare.

“If you _ever,”_ Logan growled, “Go near the little girl again? You are going to _regret_ that he didn't kill you.”

The man didn’t speak. He couldn’t with the bandages over his mouth. He simply stared at Logan with wide eyes. And then Logan dropped him, kicked him for good measure, and left him to the infection that was sure to fester in his soiled bandages. He left Highgate cemetery behind... and went back home to the clinic.

Logan didn’t do this to _save_ the man. He did it to save _Patton._ Leaving the man to die on the street would guarantee that it would be investigated. Dressing the wounds and pushing him into the alley gave them the benefit of the doubt.

It wasn’t as if Logan cared deeply for Patton… no, at best, they were acquaintances. But he _was_ concerned for Virgil. Whatever had happened between Virgil and Patton… it had left a mark. Virgil had been so lost and sad… but just now, in the clinic, they seemed to be closer than ever. They’re eyes met and sparks flew. Logan shoved his hands in his pockets. He hadn’t _fixed_ anything… but he’d given Patton's record to remain untarnished. That was better than nothing. Logan resigned himself to seeing Virgil in the morning. Maybe they could talk… and he could possibly apologize. Until then, he would go home.

It was late, the night was cold, and the rain started to fall again. Logan turned up his collar, hunched his shoulders against the rain, and went back to his clinic. Patton was safe with Virgil. Clara’s father was very _unsafe_ in the world. Logan found peace in this, and he slept well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Finally_ got to bring up the Kingsley parents, and they weren't even the focus of the chapter.  
> Ah, well. C'est la vie.  
> This chapter was one of the darkest that will ever appear in this story. Patton's days a street-fighter are done, but I don't think he regrets what he did. Hopefully, Virgil and Logan can patch things up...
> 
> See you next chapter.  
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes


	7. Bloody but Unbroken

“I’m _telling you,_ I _saw_ him!” Thomas said, his voice high and desperate as Remus and Dee stared at him. They both shared a look, one of disbelief, and Thomas sputtered. “Blood on his hands! His glasses! He asked for help, to… to find _Virgil_ , it _had_ to be him!”

Dee glanced at him. “Are you certain you weren’t asleep and dreaming?”

Thomas huffed. “I know I was awake. I made a sandwich.”

Remus sat back at the table and curled the end of his mustache thoughtfully. “We’ve never seen him here before. Why would he suddenly appear now?”

Thomas let out a disbelieving sigh. “I can’t believe I have to convince _ghosts_ that I saw a _ghost._ ”

“It simply seems unprecedented,” Dee said dismissively. “For him to come _here_ , of all places… when I appeared here, I assumed it was because I died on the front step.”

Remus glowered at that; Thomas knew why. Dee was assassinated just as he left the house. He was shot and bled to death right there in the doorway. Historians speculated that it was a power-grab assassination plotted by another high-ranking family. But now, with more of Dee’s past unveiled, Thomas had to wonder if it was another banker trying to avoid being caught _lying_ and being thrown in Dee’s dungeon. Either way, he was shot and now he was here.

Dee massaged his temples as he thought. “Is it possible that I’m here because my history is preserved here?” He touched his lips. “Is it possible… that telling this story… _our_ stories… could bring back the others? As a method of preserving their memory?”

Remus slammed his hands on the table and Thomas jumped at the sudden display of force. “Then what the _hell_ are we waiting for? Thomas, fetch your laptop! We have a story to finish!”

Scrambling a bit, Thomas went for the stairs with Remus at his heels. If Dee was right, then Patton would come back. Maybe Virgil. With enough detail, maybe Logan.

And if they were lucky, maybe even Roman Kingsley himself. 

+++++

The sun rose on glittering streets that morning. Logan eyed the horizon, waiting for more rain to fall. But the skies were clear, and he had no excuse to cooped up in his clinic. Instead, he put on his hat and coat, took up his bag of supplies, and stepped out into the humid morning air.

Summer was coming on soon, ready to usher out the late spring and bring warm rain with it. Until then, the air was steaming the rain puddles in the shallow parts of the street. Few people were out and about this early. It allowed Logan to make his way across the city with ease.

He hesitated on the doorstep, of course. Despite the effort he’d gone to, there was no guarantee it would be enough to shelter Patton from punishment. Logan shifted where he stood… and looked up at Virgil’s shop window. It was empty inside. He was probably upstairs preparing breakfast. Logan sighed… and went around to the back. He knocked three times, loud enough so Virgil couldn’t ignore him. Part of him wanted to run back home. To pretend the fight never happened and there was no need to apologize. But he knew better. He was too smart to play dumb.

There was the rushed _thud_ of feet on the stairs, then a pause… and the door opened slowly. Virgil peered out into the alley, saw Logan, and frowned.

“What do you want.” It wasn’t a real question. It was a thinly veiled _I don’t want to see you._

Logan shifted the bag in his hand. “The man wasn’t dead,” he said stiffly. Virgil was unmoved, and Logan continued. “Against all wishes to the contrary. If he was, we could’ve made a bit of pocket change. Teachers are always looking for a fresh corpse.”

“Too bad.” Virgil stayed behind the door, glaring out the two-inch wide opening he made. “He deserved to die.”

Logan hummed. They were quiet for a moment, then Logan said, “I bandaged his face. So even if he was found, it would seem he was tended to by a doctor. When he dies, it’ll be by infection. Not Patton.”

Virgil hesitated. “You should’ve left him.”

“Then Patton would be a murderer,” Logan said firmly. Virgil stared at him, and Logan said, “This way, it’s my fault. When he dies of infection, Mr. Moore isn’t to blame.”

There was another pause, and then Virgil opened the door a bit wider. Logan could see him properly in the morning light, and he looked _wrecked._ The dark circles under his eyes were more prominent. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the world and he looked a little smaller where he stood. Logan looked him up and down.

“Did you sleep in your clothes?”

Virgil’s expression didn’t waver. “It was a long damn night.”

Logan blinked. “I still don’t see how that means you sleep in your clothes.”

“Logan,” Virgil sighed as he leaned against the doorframe. “Why are you here?”

Logan twitched. “I know… that I’m distant. And cold. Clinical, I’ve been told.” Virgil nodded hesitantly, and Logan went on. “And I know… that I speak with a cool consideration.”

“Different from when we were kids,” Virgil said lowly. “You used to just tell the truth, harsh or not. Now you’re wrapped up in _reputations._ ”

Logan nodded and lowered his eyes. “And I… I’d like to apologize. For the things I said. Mr. Moore… I still don’t agree with reckless violence. But it was in noble pursuit. The police wouldn’t have done anything for a child in low-town.” Logan looked up at Virgil. “You were right.”

There was a long, thoughtful pause. Then, Virgil smiled a crooked, relieved smile. “Well, _shit_. Logan Stein admitting he’s _wrong._ It’s a miracle.”

Logan opened his mouth to snap something, then closed it. He smiled. “I only came by to tell you—"

“That you’re wrong?”

“Shut up,” Logan snapped, and Virgil laughed in response. Logan smiled a bit more. “The man was taken care of. The policeman on patrol won’t say anything.”

Virgil crosses his arms and gave an appreciative hum. “You bribed a policeman?”

Logan straightened his glasses. “All in a day’s work.” Virgil chuckled again, and Logan felt a knot of anxiety loosen in his chest. They were alright. They were still friends. Letting out a sigh of relief, Logan hefted up his bag. “I’d best be off.”

Virgil quirked an eyebrow. “You have an appointment already?”

Logan checked his pocket watch; it was nearly 7 o’clock. “I’d like to check Mr. Moore’s hands. The bandages might need changing.”

“They do,” Virgil said knowingly. He stepped back and gestured for Logan to step inside. “He’s upstairs.”

Logan looked at him. “He’s here. In your home. Above the shop.”

“He needed to say he was _somewhere_ last night.” Virgil made an unimpressed face. “In case people started asking questions.”

Logan arched an eyebrow… but stepped inside. He climbed the stairs and muttered, “I already have plenty of questions.”

When he walked into Virgil’s flat above the shop, he was still surprised to see Patton Moore sitting in the corner. He saw Logan and stood, his wrapped hands looking sore and pink through the bandages. His ruined vest and shirt were gone, but Logan could see bits of burned cloth by the fireplace. Instead, Patton wore one of Virgil’s white shirts. The linen wasn’t as crisp and white as the ones Patton normally wore. It was more of a cream color, and the sleeves were too long… but he looked rather comfortable in it, if not for the anxious glint in his eye when he looked between Logan and Virgil.

“Dr. Stein,” he started, “I… about last night, I—"

“No explanation is necessary,” Logan held up a hand to stop him, and Patton looked flooded with relief. He gestured for Patton to sit, and he did. “I don’t even want to know that man’s name.”

Patton looked at the floor. “I don’t know his name.”

“And we’re better for it,” Logan said as he pulled up a chair in front of Patton. Virgil went to the small stove and put on the kettle. Logan glanced at him. “Herbal?”

Virgil smiled as he worked. “Just like Mum used to make.”

Logan nodded in approval and unfastened the first layer of bandages on Patton’s hands. Patton watched him carefully, a curiosity burning in his eyes as he looked between him and Virgil. “Any pain, Mr. Moore?”

Patton startled, and then relaxed. “No. Well… yes. A bit. It’s an ache, really. A steady pain.” He looked down at his hands that were wrapped tight enough to make a mummy feel jealous. He thinned his lips. “It’s odd. I’ve never been one to fight before.”

Logan hummed, dropped the stained, top layer of bandages on the floor, and rewrapped Patton’s hands. “Once I saw him, I understood. His face looked like ground meat.” Patton shifted uncomfortably, and Logan waved away his discomfort. “No need to feel guilty. I gave him a swift kick for good measure.”

At the stove, Virgil laughed. _“There’s_ the Logan I know.”

Patton stared at him before he said, “I can’t imagine you _ever_ being violent, Dr. Stein.”

The kettle whistled and Logan fastened Patton’s bandages. “Nor can I imagine _you_ being violent, Mr. Moore. And yet here we are.”

“Yes,” Patton laughed breathily, more disbelieving and amused. “Here we are…”

Logan glanced up at him, seeing the worry in Patton’s eyes. “You stopped him, Mr. Moore. You’ve saved that little girl from years of abuse.”

Patton looked up at him. “Clara,” He said softly. “Her name is Clara.”

“Clara,” Logan repeated softly. “It’s a nice name.”

Patton smiled softly, as much as he could really, with that sore black eye and bruise around his nose. “She’s a wonderful little girl,” Patton murmured to himself. “Just… such a good girl. She deserved more that he father.”

“With your help, Mr. Moore,” Logan said gently, “She won’t have to see him ever again.”

Patton was quiet after that, allowing Logan to work in a peaceful kind of quiet. Sunlight broke the line of rooftops beyond them, streaming into the room and highlighting them in gold. Virgil worked quietly at the stove. One spoon of sugar… two… three… Logan was careful with Patton’s hands. The light was ushering in an early summer. For a while, it was warm.

And a peace settled over them. A calm after a storm.

+++++

Thomas didn’t get much work done. After he’d seen Patton, found Remus and Dee in the dining room, and explained the appearance of a _third_ ghost, dawn was quickly approaching. He wondered why Remus and Dee disappeared in the morning light. Was it like a magic spell? Stay too long and you’ll vanish? Or did they simply get tired, just like Thomas, and need to sleep after staying up all night? Could ghosts even sleep?

This was beside the point. Thomas wasn’t able to hear much more of the story because Remus simply vanished once he reached a natural stopping point. Thomas pivoted in his chair, looking for him, but Remus didn’t reappear. Dee didn’t step into the doorway with a snide the remark, either. The sun hadn’t come up yet… but Thomas was alone.

With a heavy sigh, he saved his document again. He was overdue for some sleep, anyway. After Patton’s startling appearance (and the consequential explanation of the blood and tears) Thomas realized one glaring thing: he was _exhausted._

So, he climbed into bed, pulled up the covers, and closed his eyes.

“Patton!” A voice called loudly in the hallway. 

Thomas’s eyes opened wide and his ears strained to listen. In the wake of that voice, there was quiet in the house. The blood rushed in his ears, blotting out anything else. He could’ve imagined it. But he doubted that. 

Then, once more: “Patton!” It was a new voice. Neither Dee or Remus… and certainly not Patton. Why would he call for himself? “Where _are_ you?”

Carefully pushing back the blankets, Thomas tiptoed to the doorway and peeked his head out into the hall. There, only a few meters away, stood a tall, thin man. He wore an old coat, his hair was dark, and Thomas saw gloves covering his hands. Thomas smiled and stepped into the hall. It was Virgil. It had to be.

“Patton!” Virgil shouted again, his back to Thomas as he looked at his surroundings. “Of all the _damned_ places to appear… Patton! Love, where are you?”

Thomas shoved his hands in his pockets and awkwardly said, “Uh… Virgil?”

Virgil twisted, saw Thomas, and _screamed._ That made _Thomas_ scream as they stumbled back and away from one another. 

After a few solid seconds of yelling, Virgil put a hand to his chest and shouted: “ _God_ , you don’t _sneak up_ on a man like that! If I wasn’t already dead, you would’ve killed me.”

Thomas caught his breath… and laughed a little. “It’s a little funny for a ghost to be spooked, isn’t it?”

Virgil looked at him, raised an eyebrow, and gave him an odd smile. “Bit odd for a person not to be scared of a ghost.”

“I’m a little desensitized,” Thomas said sadly. Virgil made a face that showed he had _no idea_ what that meant, and Thomas waved it away. “You were calling Patton, weren’t you? Is he here? Do you know where he is?”

Virgil narrowed his eyes and took a step back. _"What?_ Who are you? How… what do you know of Patton? Why do you want him?”

Thomas held his hands up in surrender. “Wait, wait. Let me explain. I’m a historian. I help collect and preserve historical items, documents, stories...”

Virgil still looked anxious. “So, what do you want from Patton?”

“The _truth_ ,” Thomas said earnestly. “See… you and Patton… Roman and Logan… it’s all tied together.”

Virgil’s eyes went wide and he stepped forward. “Logan? Logan’s here? Where is he?”

“No, he’s not…” Thomas thinned his lips. “Well. He _might_ be. I need to get the whole story before we can figure it out. Why… how did _you_ get here?”

Virgil blinked and looked down at himself. “I… I think I… I heard Patton. I heard him calling for me, so I followed that sound and… I ended up here.” He made a face at the walls before he grumbled, “Though I’d rather have showed up _anywhere_ else.”

Thomas laughed at that. “Look… Maybe it’s chance… or maybe there’s a reason for it, but you’re here and I can only assume that’s because I’m writing your story.”

Virgil looked at him and frowned. “My _story?”_

“It’s… hard to explain. Remus and Dee—" Virgil grimaced at the names, and Thomas went on, “They’ve been telling me about how Roman and Logan met. And… I guess that involves you?”

Virgil snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. “I _guess._ ”

Thomas ignored Virgil’s dismissive tone. “Look, if you can tell me more about yourself, there’s a chance Patton might come back.”

Virgil squinted, scratched a hand through his hair… and sighed. “What… what _exactly_ do you want to know?”

Thomas indicated to his office, showed Virgil what he had documented thus far, and Virgil read quietly for a long time. His brow furrowed and in more than one place, he went a little red and scrubbed a hand over his face. Thomas pointed out where he had been when he saw Patton in the hall. He described the blood on his hands and the tears in his eyes. And when he was finished, they sat looking at each other with stiff, serious expressions.

Virgil took a deep breath and scratched his brow. “And you’re _sure_ it was Patton.”

Thomas nodded. “He was asking for you. I’m pretty sure it was him.”

Virgil scrubbed a hand over his face. “God… all this time without him and I’m _still_ reaching… you need to know what happened next? Is that what’ll bring him back?”

Thomas shrugged and worried his hands together. “I mean. There’s a chance. Dee said that _might_ be what it is. Preserving history.”

Virgil smiled a bit and looked at the ground. “I just… I want to see him again. That’s all I want.”

Thomas turned to his laptop and put his hands on the keys. “I’m not sure if this is how it works… but we can try.”

With a long, interested stare, Virgil sat back in Thomas’s bed and sighed with that sharp, crooked smile. “What have I got to lose?”

Thomas smiled and started to type. 

+++++

Virgil knew her immediately. Patton’s descriptions were spot-on, after all. She had fiery hair, a smile that made the world a little less cruel, and a spring in her step that never stopped. All cooped up in a room where the other children left her alone, she _danced_ wherever she went. Despite the old, dingy dress she wore, despite there being little attention to go around… and despite her father, she twirled and bounced and giggled. Virgil couldn’t look away. She was hope incarnate. Pure, innocent excitement for life.

It was by chance that he decided to come to the orphanage. With a slow day and little to do with himself, he found himself wandering to low-town in an odd rendition of returning to his roots. He’d only came to see her. To make sure her father hadn’t come back for her. But he was moving across the room before he knew it.

“Clara,” he said without thought. Clara stopped, turned, and craned her neck back to look at him. Her eyes went wide… but she didn’t run away. She simply stared at him. Gently, he knelt in front of her and held out a hand. “Hullo. My name is Virgil.”

There was a moment of hesitation… then she slowly, _carefully,_ took his hand in both of hers, pressing her tiny palms to his glove. “Your hands are big,” she whispered, sounding in-awe of this concept.

He laughed, a little surprised, and she giggled, too. He coughed a bit, leaning away, before he looked at her and said. “Your hands are _very_ small.”

“I’ll get big,” Clara promised. “I’m six and a half years. I’ll grow.”

Virgil nodded. “I’m sure you will.” There was a pause, and Virgil said, “Clara… I’m a friend of Mr. Moore’s.” Clara stared at him, not a hint of recognition in her eyes. Virgil tried again, “I’m a friend of Patton’s.”

Clara smiled wide and Virgil saw the light that came off her. “I know Patton!”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And he told me all about your father.”

Clara’s smile disappeared. She held Virgil’s hand tight, but even then, she was so small, the pressure was hardly there. “Da… is Da coming for me?”

Virgil shook his head. “No.”

The pressure didn’t lessen. Her eyes glistened fearfully as she looked at the front door. “I ran away. I was a bad girl. I…”

“Clara,” Virgil said softly, reaching out to touch a rosy cheek. “How would it be if you came home with me?”

“Home?” Clara repeated. “Your home?”

“It would be our home. Clara… I never had a good father, myself. But if you come with me, I promise,” he held one of her tiny hands in his. “I promise I’ll be the best father I can be. For you.”

For a moment, Clara mulled the offer. It didn’t take long for her to say, “Would you buy me a new dress?”

Virgil gave a startled laugh. “What?”

Clara looked down at her threadbare dress and made a face. “I saw I saw a girl on the corner. She had a _red_ dress. Mine has always been green.”

“Do you _want_ a red dress?”

“No,” Clara frowned. “I want a _blue_ dress.”

Virgil nodded sternly. This information had to be taken seriously if the look on Clara's face was any indication. “Then we’ll get you a blue dress.”

Carefully, Clara put her arms around his neck and held tight. It was like being chosen by a nervous hound. It was more than that. Virgil knew it. He was offering to house her. Feed her. Raise her. Could he do it? Probably not alone. 

Virgil looped an arm under Clara and stood up tall, holding her to his chest. She “ooh-ed” at her new height. The matron hardly looked at him as he left. To her, it was one less mouth to feed. She didn’t care.

But Virgil cared. Virgil cared very much. He made decent wages… he could _provide_ for a child. But he was also a busy, _working_ man. He couldn’t afford a nanny or maid any more than he could afford a new house.

Virgil smiled as Clara pointed out new things she could see on their walk. Many more people, birds in the sky, the flag from an archway… she was seeing the world from new heights. Virgil wanted only the best for her. She deserved it. But… could he _provide_ the best? That was the question.

He could marry a nice woman. Several had been eyeing him for the past year. It would give Clara a mother. A mother that could watch her during the day and play with her while Virgil worked. But… that wouldn’t be fair, marrying a woman out of convenience. He wouldn’t love her. Not the way he loved Patton.

Virgil blinked; Patton. Patton would _love_ to have Clara. But… if he wanted to take her into his home, wouldn’t he have done so already?

“Look!” Clara kicked her little legs, wriggling so hard that Virgil had to shake himself out of his stupor and set her on the ground. She rushed for a shop window, pressing her face to the glass as Virgil apologized to the people she darted in front of. 

He put a hand on her shoulder when he reached her, holding her in place as he said, “Don’t run off, Clara.” When she looked away from him, he turned her and gave her a serious look. “ _Never_ run off like that. I could’ve lost you.”

Clara ducked her chin, almost looking scared as she nodded. “I saw the dress,” Clara said. Virgil glanced at the shop window. A white dress with a blue sash was on display. Clara’s bottom lip trembled as her eyes turned glossy. “An’ I just wanted… I wanted…”

Virgil nodded. “I know. I know, but… I don’t want you to run off and get hurt.”

“I ran away from my Da,” Clara whispered, hardly audible over the din of the crowds. Virgil knelt with her, holding her little hands as she sniffed and said, “I… shouldn’t have run from Da.”

“No, your father… your father was not a good man. From now on,” Virgil bent forward to catch her dewy eyes. He smiled, and she shyly smiled back. “From now on, I’ll be your Da. Alright?” With that shy smile, Clara nodded just once. Virgil picked her up again, hoisting her easily as she fisted her little hands in the collar of his coat. “Now,” he said with a soft smile. “Let’s get you that new dress.”

+++++

“... and then?” Thomas asked. Silence. Thomas glanced up and saw sunlight coming through the window. He didn’t have to guess that Virgil was gone for the day.

It was nice to know Clara was cared for… but what happened to Patton? Thomas saved what he had, went to bed, and curled up tight. Virgil was back… Remus and Dee were somewhere… so where were Patton and Logan?

And where was Roman Kingsley?

As Thomas slept, his computer stayed alight with activity. Keys were pressed carefully, documenting something new. Thomas would have to read when he woke. Until then, he slept lightly, the sunlight warm on the blankets and the keys trilling softly, a delicate ambiance to a gentle sleep.

+++++

Remus _knew_ Patton… they weren’t good friends, now the way Roman and Patton were. But Remus enjoyed Patton’s company. He enjoyed the way Patton fussed and fluttered like a mother hen. He liked the way his poetry and comments could make Patton blush and stutter. He _liked_ Patton… and imagine his surprise when he saw Patton, bruised and bandaged, on his routine visit to Roman.

Patton assured him that he was fine, that it was a long story, and everything was alright. Remus didn’t believe a word of that. He went to Roman and got the _real_ story.

And he went home in a flare of fury. This man had put his hands on a _child_ and then Patton was sneaking around on his tippy toes to avoid repercussions?

Slamming open the door to Dee’s study, Remus growled, _“Andréa!”_

Dee didn’t look up from something he was writing. “Just a moment…”

Remus didn’t wait. He stepped forward, put his hands on Dee’s wrists, and squeezed painfully until Dee looked up at him. “I need you to kill a man.”

Dee’s eyes went wide. Remus had never asked for anything like this. He hadn’t even been one to contribute to his torture sessions. This was new. Remus was _angry_ and that was _rare._

Slowly, Dee put his pen aside and turned over his hands to hold Remus’s. “Darling, I’d kill a hundred men for you.”

Remus glared. “Just one.”

“Is this a specific man, or…?”

Remus told him. He told him about Patton and his black eye and wrapped hands. He told him about the shiver in Patton’s words and his reluctance to go outside. He was afraid that people would see his injuries. Afraid that this man would come after him with charges of assault. Remus said all of this with fire in his eyes and a growl in his voice… and when he was done, Dee stood, took up his coat, and went for the door.

“Mind the house for me, dearest.” He put on a hat and busied himself with a crisp pair of gloves. Remus followed him, catching the cold, deadly glint in Dee’s eye. “I’ve an errand to run.”

He stepped out of the house and Remus leaned in the doorway calling after him, “Dee!”

Dee turned. “Yes.”

“Bring him back alive,” Remus growled. Dee cocked his head to the side, feigning curiosity, but Remus didn’t smile. He stayed dark and angry, and Dee reflected that glare like light off a mirror. “I want him _alive_ for what I have planned.”

Dee raised his eyebrows. “You have a plan. Commendable.”

Remus drummed his fingers against the doorframe and said in a sotto voce, “Don’t keep me waiting, darling.”

Dee tipped his hat. “I’ll bring him bloody but unbroken. You have my word.”

“Good,” Remus glowered. “Leave the breaking to me.”

+++++

Patton was in a state of panic. 

After staying in the house for nearly a week and allowing his bruises to heal, he’d finally ventured out into the city. Clara’s father hadn’t sent anyone after him. In fact, Patton hadn’t heard anything about a body being found in the alleys of low-town. Maybe it was luck. Maybe he had died in a low-traffic area. Either way, Patton was free to walk out of his house with his hands lightly wrapped and face unmarred by a bruise.

Then he’d reached the orphanage, and he was caught in a spiral of fear. Clara was gone. He searched every part of the house, every nook and cranny where Clara could’ve hidden, and even in the broom cupboards. But she was gone. When he found Amelia, he nearly pounced at the opportunity for information.

“Where did she _go?”_

Amelia looked at him, a little bored even though the conversation had only just started. “She left.”

“Left?” Patton repeated breathlessly. “Left to go _where?”_

Amelia shrugged and swept the floor. “With a man.”

Panic bolted through Patton’s chest and he grabbed Amelia’s arms. It hurt his hands to bend his fingers, but he held her biceps and shouted, _“What man?”_

Amelia wriggled in his grasp. “Let go of me! He was just a man!”

Patton’s eyes were wide and scared as he said, “But—but what did he look like?”

“Like a random bloke!” Amelia shouted back. Children in the other room were watching. They were a bit startled. Patton couldn’t blame them. Amelia continued. “Tall! Dark hair! Pale skin! Looked like he would hit his head on the rafters!”

Patton released her. That wasn’t Clara’s father. Clara’s father was _his_ height and had red hair. Patton blinked… and rushed out the door. Amelia didn’t tell him to stop, but she did scream something inappropriate in his wake. He didn’t hail a carriage. He didn’t even think to try. He simply ran for Virgil’s shop.

He could only _hope_ that it was Virgil that came for her. It could’ve been anyone. Clara was a wonderful child… what if a stranger had come for her? What would happen to her? Would he ever see her again? 

Patton was gasping for breath when he could see Virgil’s shop. His lungs burned for air and people were staring as he came to a stumbling stop, but he didn’t mind. He was looking through the window and the glass of the front door. The shop was quiet, and Virgil was at his desk. He looked like he was working. Patton fought to catch his breath. He didn’t see Clara. She was gone.

Then, before he could resign himself to a good cry, he saw a mess of red curls swing around the corner behind Virgil’s desk. Clara bounced up to him with a new, white dress. She reached up and Virgil brought her up into his lap. He smiled and laughed, kissing the top of her hair as she leaned against him. She put something in his hand. A coin it would seem. Virgil flipped it, caught it, and opened his hand for Clara to see. She laughed and he smiled with her and by god, it looked like _sunshine_. Patton’s heart thudded madly, and it wasn’t because he’d been running.

Without thought, he stepped into the shop. Virgil glanced up, saw him, and his expression turned nervous. Patton licked his lips. He wasn’t sure what to say. His hands hurt. His mouth felt dry. He opened mouth to say something… then closed it. What was he _supposed_ to say? Thank you? I told you that you were a good man? Patton wasn’t sure. Luckily, Clara came to their rescue.

“Patton!” She squeaked, wriggling out of Virgil’s lap as he tried to put her down gently. She toddled straight to Patton and threw her arms around his legs. He smiled, leaning down to hug her and kiss her hair. She smelled sweet and felt warm. Patton sat back and Clara touched his bandages. “Your hands…”

“It was just an accident, little duck. Don’t worry,” Patton smiled, and Clara met it with a smile of her own. She spun and showed off her dress, and Patton cooed indulgently. “Oh, _very_ pretty! A new dress?”

Clara beamed and looked at Virgil. “My new papa got it for me!”

Patton looked at Virgil. He’d stepped away from his desk and was wiping his hands on his work-apron uneasily. Then, after a moment of quiet between them, Virgil cleared his throat and said, “Clara. There’s biscuits in the kitchen.”

Clara’s eyes went wide as saucers and she sprang for the stairs, disappearing up onto the second floor while Patton and Virgil stared at one another. The silence felt physical. Patton wanted to _fix_ it… but he wasn’t sure how.

Virgil spoke first. “I didn’t mean to bring her home,” he said. “It just. Happened.”

“Oh?”

“I… you were right. She smiles like summer. I saw her and… I don’t know. I felt like I needed to help her. To keep her safe. She just… made me feel like I needed to _do something._ ”

Patton nodded with a smile. “She does, doesn’t she? I thought about it more than once…” he looked down at his bandaged hands and regretted the pain that came with the wrappings. The bare tips of his fingers fidgeted anyway. “But I wasn’t sure if I… would be enough. And I know I won’t be marrying.”

There was a long pause. Then, “I couldn’t leave her there. She needs a real father. A family.”

Patton nodded again, lifting his eyes to meet Virgil’s. “She does.”

“I don’t know how well I can do it,” Virgil chuckled uneasily. “Especially on my own.”

Hurt seeped into Patton’s heart and he forced himself to keep smiling. “Unlike me, you could marry. A wonderful man like you? Any woman would be lucky to have you.”

“I wouldn’t love them,” Virgil said darkly. Patton looked at him, and Virgil met his eye. He didn’t look away. “I wouldn’t be able to love someone else. Not the way I…” he stopped there.

Patton stepped forward and Virgil didn’t run. He stood firm, reaching out to put his hands on Patton’s waist when he was close enough. Patton reached up, looped his arms around Virgil’s neck, and pulled him down slowly. Virgil didn’t say “no.” He didn’t say “stop.” He pulled Patton close… and then backed up a step. Patton went with him, dragged into the back room where no passersby would see them through the window.

Finally, Virgil kissed him. It felt so much more _real_ than the night at the party. It felt warm and soft. Virgil’s hands were pulling him closer, closer… his hands ached as he grabbed at Virgil’s collar and pulled him in. Virgil kissed him long and hard, like he was making up for lost time. Patton couldn’t breathe… but he kissed him back anyway. He kissed until he was dizzy and then leaned back to catch his breath. Virgil chased him, kissing his jaw and leaving a hot, burning trail down his neck as Patton let out a breathless laugh.

“ _Oh…_ I don’t think you can blame this on alcohol.”

“Wouldn’t want to,” Virgil murmured against his skin. Patton bit back a moan as he arched into Virgil, his sore hands straining as he grasped at Virgil’s vest for something to ground him.

“I —oh, _yes please_ — Virgil, I—"

Virgil leaned back, kissed his lips, and murmured, “I love you. Patton, I… I’ve been in love with you since—"

“The first moment we met, I think I knew I loved you,” Patton smiled as he brought Virgil back down for another kiss. “God in Heaven, I _knew…_ you wouldn’t believe how much I’ve wanted you—"

“Every night,” Virgil kissed him desperately. “I’ve thought of you _every night_.”

Patton cupped Virgil’s face and held him at bay for a moment. “I thought it was in my head. I thought I was imagining your favor. But… but you want me. You do?”

Virgil smiled and his gray eyes shone in the dim light of the backroom. “More than anything.”

Patton smiled breathlessly and kissed him again. They were startled when Clara came clattering down the stairs and though they tore away from each other, she stopped and stared, her big, golden eyes looking between the two of them thoughtfully. Patton caught his breath, a hand over his mouth as he leaned against the wall heavily. Virgil was bright red as he gave Clara an uneasy smile.

“What’s wrong, dove?”

Patton almost melted; he called her _dove._ What a soft, delicate name. It fit her perfectly. Clara puckered her lips, glancing between the two of them thoughtfully.

Then, after a lifetime of thinking, she said, _“Two_ new papas?”

A little startled, Patton laughed. Virgil echoed it, opening his arms and bringing Clara up into a comfortable hold. He kissed her hair and she smiled.

“Yes,” Virgil said through a smile that could’ve been a gift from the heavens. “Two papas.”

Clara smiled and swung her legs a little. “I’ve never had two papas before.”

Patton looked at Virgil, seeing that strange, warm glimmer in his eyes. Had it always been there when Virgil looked at him? Had he been blind all this time? Patton smiled anyway, brushing a thumb over Clara’s soft cheek. “We’ll be a sort of… secret family.”

Clara’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Secret!”

Virgil shifted his weight onto his right foot, shifting Clara so she sat on his hip comfortably. “ _Secret_ … let the world try to stop us,” he looked at Patton. “Who’s to judge us if two men raise a little girl?”

Patton smiled helplessly. “The _law_ , dear. The law will judge us. We… we’ll have to be _discrete_.”

Virgil leaned down to kiss him and Clara squealed as she covered her eyes with a smile. “Let the constable take me away, love. I’m not hiding anymore.”

+++++

A soft hand took Thomas’s shoulder and shook him. He curled up a little tighter. Remus’s typing speed had gotten faster in the past few days. If he had more story to tell, he could type it himself. The hand returned though, shaking him a bit more like a parent trying to wake up a child on a weekend.

“Young man?” A soft voice said. Not Virgil. Not Remus or Dee. Thomas opened his eyes and bolted upright. Next to him, Patton stepped back and held a hand to his chest. “Heavens! Might’ve knocked heads if I hadn’t been careful.”

Thomas looked at him. “Patton.”

Patton smiled a bit, his eyes glittering behind his glasses. His hands were clean. No blood. No tears. “Yes.”

_“Patton.”_

Patton’s brow furrow as his smile turned concerned. “Yes?”

“You’re here!” Thomas announced.

“Of course I am!” Patton wrung his hands, a strange, perplexed expression on his face. “I remember… oh, I remember reliving that _horrible_ night… I remembered _you,_ young man.”

Thomas threw back the blankets, stood up, and offered his hand. “Thomas. My name is Thomas.”

Patton took his hand. He was cold as ice, but he shook Thomas’s hand happily. “Lovely to meet you! I’m Patton Moore, but… you knew my name, didn’t you?” Patton continued to hold his hand, the warmth soaking into him like he was seeking thermodynamic equilibrium. “How… pardon my asking, but… how _do_ you know me? How can you _see_ me? And how…” he held Thomas’s hand tight. “How am I _here?”_

Thomas sighed and shook his hands once Patton released him. “This is… _really_ hard to explain more than once. Uh… see, I originally started studying the Kingsley Brothers… oh. I’m a historian.”

“Oh,” Patton said numbly. He didn’t know what that meant. Thomas tried anyway.

“I was studying their works and I know that Remus had a partner—"

“Mr. Dee,” Patton said knowingly.

“Yes! And Roman was in a relationship with a man, too. But their correspondence was discrete and vague, and they _never_ used names which is frustrating—"

“Young man,” Patton interrupted, paused, and then corrected himself. _“Thomas,_ I’m so sorry but… how does that bring _me_ here? To the Dee Estate?”

Thomas nodded. “Yeah, see… Remus and Dee were telling me the whole story and that involved telling me about you and Virgil, and—"

Patton’s eyes went wide and he reached out to Thomas again. “Virgil. Is Virgil here? Have you seen him?”

“Patton,” came a breathless voice in the doorway. Thomas and Patton turned, seeing Virgil standing in the night-darkened corridor. He probably didn’t even see Thomas there. He only had eyes for Patton. He took a shuddering breath, his eyes glimmering as he smiled and repeated, _“Patton.”_

“Virgil,” Patton whispered, almost like he couldn’t believe it. Before they said anything else, Patton rushed for him, throwing his arms around Virgil and holding so tight, they might’ve phased through each other. Virgil held him just as tight, a hand held to the back of Patton’s head and keeping him close. Patton’s voice came out muffled and desperate, “I’ve been _looking_ for you. I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Virgil… _darling,_ I…”

Virgil laughed and it was a watery sound. “Don’t you _dare_ apologize. I’m sorry I left you behind.”

Patton leaned back, cupping Virgil’s cheeks and looking at him so sweetly, it made the air taste sugary. Still, there was a sadness in his words as he said, “You couldn’t have stopped the infection in your lungs even if you wanted to.”

Virgil’s hands fisted in the back of Patton’s vest. “But I left you all _alone_ … and I waited for you. But I couldn’t _find_ you.”

Patton smiled sadly. “I had to hold on a bit longer. For Clara.”

“Clara,” Virgil’s eyes shone with recognition. “Where… how… is she…?”

Patton’s smile turned bright. “She got married in autumn of ‘62. She was a beautiful bride. She was _happy.”_

Virgil touched their foreheads together. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”

Thomas sank into his desk chair, looking at the couple with fond smile. Maybe someday, he’d fall in love like that. He’d love so deeply, and he’d wait beyond the veil for him. Then they would haunt a poor, unsuspecting historian in a grand show of symmetry.

Then, just as quickly as they appeared, Virgil and Patton were gone. It was different from how the others would vanish from sight. This time, Thomas was _watching_ them, and they just… vanished. They left a faint trickle of dust in their wake that fluttered to the floor. Thomas stared, rubbed his eyes, and stared again. But they were gone.

Remus’s head poke around the doorway with a goofy grin. “ _Good_ evening, Thomas!”

Thomas pointed at the space Virgil and Patton had occupied moments before. “You… you _saw_ them, right? They were there?”

Remus stepped into the room with a jaunty swing of his hips. “Oh, I saw them. I saw a dramatic reunion. Very mushy. _Very_ Patton.”

“So, he was here! I was right!” Thomas pushed his hands through his hair. “This means that the story thing is _true_. By telling these stories, bur writing it all down and _preserving_ it—"

“We’re preserving their memory,” Remus nodded. “Now. Shall we continue? There’s plenty more that you need to know. The parts that Patton and Virgil play aren’t finished yet either.”

Thomas stared at him, then glanced at the empty doorway. “Where did they go?”

Dee stepped into the doorway and crossed his arms haughtily. “The same place that music goes during the pauses between notes. They’re still _here_ , Thomas. Just in a different place.”

 _“Oh!”_ Remus cooed, “That was poetic.” He pat the bed happily. “You sit here. I’ll kneel between your legs and give you a prize.”

Thomas and Dee both grimaced, but Dee was the one to say, “Perhaps later, darling.”

Thomas spoke up again, eager to change the subject. “Will they come back? Virgil and Patton?”

“Perhaps,” Dee said thoughtfully. “If memory serves… Virgil died nearly six years before Patton. They have plenty to discuss. I can understand why they’d want to do so privately.”

Remus huffed and snapped his fingers impatiently. “Yes, _yes,_ it’s all very _heartwarming,_ now let’s move _forward_ and address the issue at hand.”

Thomas looked at him. “Your brother?”

Remus gave him a dark look. “No. The economy. Of _course_ my brother!”

Indulgingly, Thomas turned back to his laptop. “There are a _lot_ of things happening today…”

“All the more reason to rise to the occasion!” Remus said boldly as he laid back on the bed. “Now. Springtime had come to a close with a storm that left half of England drowned… and summer came on with a force.” Thomas started to type, and Remus launched into his typical narration. “It was, in fact, the season that Roman weathered the best.”

“I wonder if it had to do with the warmth,” Dee said as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Remus kicked up his feet, planting one in Dee’s lap and the other on his shoulder. Dee pat his ankle calmly as he said, “Roman always did get chilly so easily.”

Remus hummed. “I think that summer changed things the most. A warm summer… hot, humid days that ran into the next like blood _over_ fingernails… details get stuck like the blood _under_ the nails...”

Thomas cleared his throat. “So… summer?”

Remus smiled and curled his mustache. “If I recall, it was one of those rare, sunny days. The kind that make flowers burst open and ladies swoon under there parasols.”

Dee rolled his eyes. “Good heavens…”

Remus ignored him and went on. “Yes! It was a rare, sunny day in London town, and everyone was bustling. Tired from the heat and drooping like un-watered roses going crisp and brown in the sunlight. This is important, Thomas, because people were succumbing to the heat.”

Thomas nodded. “Heatstroke.”

Remus perked up at that. “What a quaint name for it. _Heatstroke_. I believe I’ve done something like that to _you_ , Dee.”

Dee glanced at him. “Focus, Remus.”

“Ah, right. This _heatstroke_ was afflicting many a citizen in London. And our dear Dr. Stein was _very_ busy…”

+++++

It was the hottest day of the year on record.

It should be said that Logan didn’t much _care_ about the records in accordance to temperature, but in London in the nineteenth century, with women and their heavy skirts and layers and gentlemen with thick coats… it was bound to be full of people ill-equipped to manage the heat. Even so, women went out with their lacy parasols, certain that they would stave off the sun (gentlemen did no such thing, they were _men_ after all and could handle a bit of heat. This thinking ended up with Lord Crampton tail over teakettle in the bushes of his garden, victim of heat exhaustion.)

Still, this meant that Logan’s day was full, and a full day was not a boring day. He simply wished that his day wasn’t full of _wasted time._

Logan gathered up his coat and quickly made his way out of Madam Selene’s quarters. After wailing and shrieking for a doctor (“no, not _that_ doctor, Dr. Stein!”) Selene had been fumbling for Logan’s sleeve and moaning that the room was “too warm.” Logan was not a man of weak constitution. But then, she’d removed her petticoats. Her _petticoats_.

Logan clipped his bag shut, scolded her for wasting not only _his_ time but the concern of her maid, and left in a huff. She was not the only person to do things like this. Some fine men in the city were just as guilty of this “woe is me” routine. And it was easily the most grating and taxing part of Logan’s job.

He stopped on the street corner on his hurried, huffy walk back to his office to check for his pipe. It was in his bag — fine, yes — but he had no light — less fine. He could ask any person on the street for a light, but pipes were best smoked in the privacy of ones’ office, not the corner of the street. With a frustrated grumble, Logan resumed his walk with short, angry steps.

He wasn’t angry at anyone in particular. Not really. Not Selene, not her maid, and not any nameable people that asked for his diagnoses. Really, he thought he might be mad at the whole of the city; everyone was to blame with this ridiculousness. Feigning illness and swooning into the arms of a doctor... perhaps it was the fault of cheap serials that were printed off for a shilling on the street. Melodrama and senseless romance. Hogwash, in Logan’s mind. A waste of his time and effort when a high-class lady sighed and tilted into his bored, waiting arms. It was the _heat_ that made people do these things; it was _the whimsy._

He had no use for it. He had studied in Edinburgh. This was becoming more of a hindrance and less of an inconvenience. What if someone was truly in need of a doctor while some wily young nobleman was monopolizing Logan’s time? It wasn’t trifling. It was surely dangerous.

Again, Logan fumbled for his pipe. He didn’t smoke often. But when he did, it was to relax. He wanted to go back to his office, sit, and smoke. Just puff out clouds of rolling smoke irritably until the room was murky and his head was quiet and equally cloudy.

“Dr. Stein!”

And his hopes of relaxing were dashed.

With a quiet, inward sigh, Logan turned on his heel to see Patton Moore waving enthusiastically down the pavement. He almost looked like a loon, but Logan wouldn’t dare say that. Not to a man of higher status. So he clenched his jaw, tipped his hat respectfully, and met Patton halfway on the street.

“What a stroke of luck,” Patton said, “Seeing you here on the street!”

“Ah.” Logan managed to say through his tight jaw. “What luck. On your way to see Virgil, I presume?”

Patton flushed and it didn’t go unnoticed. “It’s a lovely day. I might take Clara for a stroll.”

Logan was tiring of idle chitchat, even if it had just started. He didn’t _dislike_ Patton. It was rather the opposite. Patton was a good man and he was a good man doing _good_ things… but he was also slowly but surely stealing away Logan’s best friend. Whenever Logan saw Virgil, he was always talking about Patton or Clara. He was busy now. With a little girl to bounce on his knee and a gentleman caller knocking on the door every night, there was little time for Virgil to spare. And Logan was all the more irritable for it.

This had nothing to do with the fact he hadn’t seen Roman in several weeks. Of _course_ it had nothing to do with that. Roman was doing well and that had to be respected. So, straining against the urge to grind his teeth, Logan was polite and asked, “And how is Mr. Kingsley? Well, I hope.”

Patton’s bright mood immediately dampened, and he pinched at his gloved hands uncomfortably. “I... suppose. Well. In a manner of speaking, he’s. Well.”

Logan hated that his interest was piqued. “You don’t seem entirely convinced, Mr. Moore.”

Patton looked at him, his eyes sharp and mouth set in a firm line. “If I may be frank, Dr. Stein.”

“Please.”

“I haven’t seen him for nearly two days.”

Logan’s eyebrows made a run for his hairline. “You... haven’t...?”

“He left yesterday morning,” Patton said. “Left in a nice coat and a hat. Ready and dressed like a gentleman.” Logan wondered how many times Roman left his home _not_ dressed properly, but he digressed. Patton went on. “He said he went looking for inspiration. Trees and water, he told me. Trees and water.”

Logan made a pinched face. “That’s... spectacularly unspecific.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Patton didn’t seem particularly concerned. If anything, he made a show of being concerned, a hand to his breast as he looked off into the distance with a furrowed brow. Logan sighed.

“Not that I’m not worried,” Logan lied. He wasn’t worried. Not for Roman Kingsley. He wasn’t concerned or captivated or wondering where Roman had gone to find trees and water. A beach? A forest? Somewhere equally idyllic where he could stand and look terribly handsome against the light? Logan twitched and adjusted his bag in his hand. “But the whereabouts of your tenant seem... trivial to you. At best.”

Patton looked surprised by this revelation. “Does it? I am worried. I am, I promise. But... to be fair, Roman does like to disappear from time to time. And if he isn’t home, he’s with his brother.”

Ah, yes. Logan had forgotten about Roman’s brother. Remus, wasn’t it? He counted himself lucky for not crossing his path often. He was even _more_ outrageous than Roman. Calmly, Logan stepped back, eager to remove himself from the conversation.

“Well then. I’m sure he’ll return home in due time.”

“He will, he will.”

“Good day, Mr. Moore.”

Patton smiled and straightened his glasses. Behind the glass, he seemed to know something that Logan didn’t. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

Patton didn’t request that he stay. Patton didn’t ask him to find Roman or inquire his whereabouts with others. He simply passed a hand down the front of his overcoat and brushed past Logan, continuing his journey to Clara, and by extension, Virgil. Logan didn’t follow him. He didn’t ask about Roman. He didn’t ask for reassurance on Roman’s well-being.

Logan turned and started walking again. He didn’t feel angry anymore. Not nearly so huffy and puffy... but a little nauseous. Like he was worried or forgetting something deeply important on his agenda. Logan walked, but he didn’t return to his office. Anyone who needed a doctor would have to seek another professional. Logan went through London, making his way through the bustle of uptown, only to find himself St. James Park.

Distantly, something was crying out in his brain. Something that was indignantly stomping and flailing at the fact he was shirking his duties. He didn’t acknowledge it, though. He watched the crowds of wealthy uptown London peoples. He watched the ladies with their parasols and the men that offered their arms in a gentlemanly manner. He saw the younger men arguing vehemently on their studies as they walked, oblivious to the ruckus they caused. He saw the green, green grass and the spattering of trees. Swans swam in the ponds, elegant and vicious as Logan walked past.

And then he saw him.

Roman Kingsley stood in the grass, his coat unbuttoned and spread open as he perched a sketchbook against his hip. He looked up from moment to moment, gazing across the park with quiet, thoughtful expressions before he returned his eyes to the paper and sketched. Logan stood at the edge of the path. He felt stricken. Struck by... what? The look of him? He was the stuff of those cheap melodramas sold on the street. He was a prince standing against the blue sky, outlined in golden sunlight and shaded by crisp green leaves of the trees. He was unkempt, ruffled by two long days of sketching and staring. And from the way lovely ladies would stop and stare, it seemed Logan wasn’t the only one captivated by the sight of a handsome man with his coat open, pale throat exposed, and hair windswept and effortlessly elegant.

Shaking himself out of the stupor, Logan hefted up his bag and gingerly stepped onto the grass, making his way to Roman.

“Mr. Kingsley,” he said when he was close. Roman hummed, but it was more to himself than to Logan. Why was he doing this? Why was he, Dr. Logan Stein, seeking out a tired, worn artist in the middle of the park? He wasn’t sure. He simply tried again. “Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman paused, looked down at the pencil in his hand, then blinked. After a moment, he looked at Logan. “Doctor. What brings you to St. James?”

Logan floundered. “Business,” he lied uselessly, his words feeling paper-thin against the weight of Roman’s stare. “Fancy seeing you here, Mr. Kingsley. Tired of painting in the attic?”

“Ha!” Roman laughed and adjusted his footing, his hips finally pivoting as he lowered his sketchbook. Then, he frowned and shook his legs a bit. “Good _heavens_ , how long have I been here?”

Logan blinked. “Mr. Moore tells me you’ve been missing for two days.”

Roman openly stared. “Have I been?”

Logan felt that stare, along with the stardust in his eyes. It almost burned. “Apparently.”

As if amused, Roman gestured to himself. “I don’t feel like I’m missing. I _feel_ quite found, Doctor.”

“You _look_ found, Mr. Kingsley.”

Again, Roman laughed, a long, relaxed bout of laughter that made Logan feel like he’d swallowed a mouthful of champagne. He swallowed again, reflexively, but it didn’t help. When Roman looked at him, his palms started to sweat. “I remember dining with my brother... surely, I haven’t been here for two days straight.”

“Surely,” Logan repeated numbly.

Then, they stood in silence. Roman was staring at him. Watching him. As if Logan would do something spectacular if he watched closely enough. Nothing happened. Logan stood before him as a man with no tricks or surprises. Simply a man. A man whose mouth had gone dry and his palms continued to sweat. He was a doctor. He knew what was happening to him. He could chalk it up to heatstroke.

“Something troubling you?” Roman asked calmly. He closed his sketchbook. Logan caught a brief glance of young ladies in their heavy petticoats before the book was shut. After the sketchbook was tucked safely under Roman’s arm, he raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Stein?”

“Pardon?”

“I said ‘is something troubling you.’ You seem distracted. Which is odd. You’re normally so intensely focused.”

What did Roman know of him? Too much or too little? Logan didn’t snap about this. Instead he said, “I’d been meaning to sit down and smoke a bit before my next appointment. The last house call was...” he didn’t finish. Roman’s answering wince said he didn’t have to.

“Please, Dr. Stein, tell me you don’t smoke cigars.”

“I do not. I seldom smoke a pipe.”

Roman lit up with a smile. “My father used to smoke a pipe! Every night after supper.”

Adjusting his glasses, Logan hummed. “Only on difficult days for me.”

Roman gestured for the path, and Logan gladly followed him, happy to be off the grass and back on civilized ground. Then Roman started walking. Logan felt himself moving, too. Like a moth drawing toward a flame, he walked in-step with Roman Kingsley.

“I don’t smoke,” Roman said. He didn’t care, he was just filling the air. Which was good. Because Logan felt like he was _running out_ of it. His collar felt too tight. He felt suffocated. He knew these symptoms. He ignored them as Roman went on. “I used to try smoking, you see. It had been recommended by a different doctor.” Logan _knew_ this already, but Roman was saying ‘different doctor’ with such distain, it almost made Logan feel special. If it weren’t for the unsteadiness in his feet, he would have held his head high. Roman continued, “The smoke seemed to make my coughing worse. Worse! Can you imagine?”

Logan’s own words felt uncomfortable in his mouth. “I can, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Fool recommended smoking _for_ the cough and it just made it worse. Fools. The lot of them. All but _one_.” Roman nudged Logan and Logan stumbled. With a chuckle, Roman reached over to steady him with a hand. “So sorry, doctor.”

“Please,” Logan said, his vision running together. He needed to sit. He needed to breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe? He looked to Roman and felt his heart thud madly in his chest. “Don’t apologize. I’m not sure why…” he didn’t know what he was going to say. The words went nowhere and Roman simply smiled.

“Doctor.”

“Mr. Kingsley?”

“I’ve always wondered,” he said, those eyes looking into him. Through him. He stared, and Logan felt translucent. Roman smiled and continued walking. Logan was helpless to follow. “I’ve been curious for _weeks_ now, and you keep dodging the question. Would you tell me your _first_ name?”

Logan took a step back from Roman, keenly aware of the warmth of Roman’s hand on his elbow. It had steadied him and now he was a ship lost at sea. At least, it _felt_ like he was at sea. The ground didn’t seem to stand still under his feet. He looked around and the world spun with the movement. He might be sick. Trying to refocus, he looked at Roman and said, “Whatever will you _do_ with my name?”

“What a question! Nothing nefarious, I simply intend to _use_ it, my good man.”

“Nefarious indeed.”

Roman rolled his eyes with a smile, and Logan could hardly keep up with the movement. “A name, Dr. Stein. It’s all I ask. To put a name to the mysterious doctor I care for.”

“Rather improper,” Logan said as he tugged at his collar. He took a breath and felt a bit better. “For a patient to call his doctor by his first name.”

“Oh, don’t act pompous. We’re friends, we’ve said so… and I’m not ill and you’re not attending me!” Roman shrugged and waved a hand in the air. “Why stand on ceremony?”

“Because it’s the principal of the matter—”

“Doctor,” Roman said, effectively cutting Logan off. He held him there, that strong, speculative stare of his pinning Logan down like an insect having its wings pinned in place by a curious student. “A name is all I ask. I promise not to run off with it.”

“Logan,” Logan said uneasily, his vision swimming. He knew what this was. He was faint. He’d never _truly_ felt faint before. Not even when he’d gone through medical school. Not during the dissections and not during the clean-up. What was it? It couldn’t be the heat. Could it? He was wearing a heavy coat. Why was he wearing a heavy coat?

“Logan,” Roman repeated, almost reverent as they walked. He smiled an appreciative smile. “Logan,” he said again, like it needed to be tasted on his tongue like a fine wine. “It’s a nice name. Strong.”

Logan swallowed thickly and took a deep breath. “Thank you,” he gasped, tugging at his collar again. He wasn’t sweating anymore.

“Now that I have the honor of knowing your name,” Roman said languidly. Logan took a sharp breath. “Perhaps you could do me one last _great_ favor… and simply call me ‘Roman,’ hmm?”

Logan stopped walking. Roman stopped with him, pivoting on his heel and looking back to look at Logan’s face. Logan met his eye. Rather, he _tried_ to meet Roman’s eye… it was all beginning to melt together in a rendition of an artist sweeping their open palm over an unset chalk sketch. It smeared and blurred, and Logan blinked hard, trying to holding things into place. It didn’t work.

“Doctor?” Roman reached out and took his elbow again. It was steadying him. Had he been tipping to the side? Falling? Logan wasn’t sure. He grasped Roman’s arm, holding onto a trim bicep with one hand as he let his bag hit the ground. Roman took his other hand, holding it as he ducked to catch Logan’s gaze with wide, frightened eyes. “Dr. Stein, your… your face. You’ve gone pale. Good god… my dear man, are you alright?”

“Mr. Kingsley,” Logan said through a mouthful of cotton. “I believe I’m going to faint.”

Roman’s eyes went as wide and round as dinner plates. “What—you—what?”

Logan’s legs crumbled beneath him as the sun and sky and light went far, far away. He felt a hand gripping his upper arm. An arm thrown around his waist. Heat of another body. And a voice. A voice that cried, “Doctor! Dr. Stein! _Logan!”_ It was Roman’s voice, surely. That far away voice that came to him through the heaviness of unconsciousness. He didn’t feel himself hit the ground. He only felt Roman’s arms around him, a comforting reassurance as he slipped into darkness.

+++++

Soft hands passed over Logan’s hair. He could feel the drag of fingertips through each strand, almost reverent, like he was some wonderous, beautiful creature. He knew better, but the delicacy was appreciated. The weight of his coat was gone. He was left open and susceptible… and yet, he felt safe. A dream? A hallucination? He wasn’t sure. His eyes were closed. His skin felt too hot… and then a cool cloth was put to his forehead. Logan frowned and his brow furrowed.

St. James park, Roman, and his heatstroke flickered to the forefront of Logan’s mind and his eyes flew open. The world was blurry. Where were his glasses? He squinted and turned, trying to take in his surrounding as he pivoted. He was lying on some sort of sofa. It was plush and felt far too expensive for him. A table was next to him and on them… might’ve been his glasses. He reached for them, relief relieved when they were, in fact, his glasses.

He pushed them on… and looked up at enormous, gold-trimmed windows. Sunlight streamed through each pane. The table in front of him was finely-crafted wood with intricate carvings set in the center. He was lying on a fainting couch. A _fainting_ couch. Logan swallowed thickly and sat up, reaching for the cold, clear water on the table in front of him.

“’Bout time you woke up,” came a startlingly familiar voice. Logan twisted, seeing Remus Kingsley leaning against the back of the couch with a wry smile. “Feeling better, Doctor?”

Logan twitched and took a drink. One sip led to him draining the glass in seconds. Had he been dehydrated? Probably. His hands shook as he set the glass down. “In perfect honesty, I’m feeling a bit nauseous.”

Remus made a face and curled his mustache. “I normally don’t get that kind of reaction until I start reading my poetry.” He smiled madly. “It’s funny to watch the men blush and the ladies squirm.”

Logan glanced at him and then tried to stand. His legs wobbled dangerously, and Remus was next to him in an instant, helping him sit back down. Logan grimaced. “Not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality, but I—”

Remus snorted. “You have somewhere to be?” Logan pressed his lips together and Remus laughed again. “Let yourself rest, you ridiculous oaf. Roman didn’t bring you all this way for you to disappear into the heat wave.”

“Roman,” Logan repeated softly, bit his tongue, and said, “Pardon. _Mr. Kingsley_ … he brought me here?”

Remus sat down in the nearby armchair and crossed his legs. “Mmm. He said you collapsed in St. James. He and another man helped you into a carriage and he brought you here, to my home.”

“Your home.”

Remus squinted and pinched his mustache again. “Well. The _Duell_ Estate, but really. My home, as I do _live_ here.” Logan let out a breath and tried to stand again. His knees didn’t tremble as much, but he still felt unsteady. Even so, he wouldn’t take up any space in a strangers’ home. Remus looked at him oddly. “Leaving so soon, Doctor?”

“I wouldn’t presume to intrude.”

Remus smiled for a long while… but didn’t stop him. Logan stood awkwardly, unsure of how he would ask for his things. His bag and coat were gone. He’d never felt so vulnerable without it. He fumbled with the buttons on his vest, glancing around the room oddly until Remus spoke.

“Have you been to the sea, Dr. Stein?”

“Have I—excuse me. I don’t—”

“The _sea_ , my good man. Surely, you’ve heard of it. Big. Blue. _Very_ wet. Salty. Is this ringing any bells?”

Logan grimaced. “I know what the _ocean_ is, Mr. Kingsley.”

“But have you _seen_ it?” Remus asked with that crooked smile of his. “Have you seen the waves? Smelled the saltwater? The crisp air that cuts through you?”

Logan went to tug at his collar… only to realize that someone had undone it. Another thing that made him feel exposed. Where was his tie? Logan swallowed thickly and said, “I’ve never been to the coast, no. If there’s nothing else, I’d like to be on my way—”

Remus sat forward with purpose, his hands folded together as he smiled darkly and said, “The Kingsley family used to take trips to the Summer Home around this time of year. But I’d _hate_ to drag my dear brother there without the care of a family doctor.”

Logan baulked at that; _family_ doctor? The Kingsley’s had a family doctor? If they did, why on _earth_ did Roman call on him? Just to be _funny_? To waste Logan’s time, no doubt. And now they were poking fun of him for collapsing in the heat. Logan’s expression soured.

“Well then. I wish you the best on your trip, Mr. Kingsley.” Logan turned, unsure of how he would find his belongings… but perfectly fine with walking away from Remus. Remus was up and following him close, tapping his shoulder incessantly.

“Now, now, Doctor! No need to be all _pissy_.”

Logan looked at him. “Why, I _never_ —” Remus waved a hand at him.

“Yes, yes, I have a foul mouth, I know that already. More importantly: we no longer _have_ a family doctor. After our parents passed, Roman had the man sacked. Point is!” Remus draped his arm over Logan’s shoulders – much to Logan’s chagrin – and sighed melodramatically, “Whoever will come along with us and watch over my dear, frail brother!”

As if on cue, Roman stepped around the corner with a silver pitcher in his hand, he saw Logan, smiled hopelessly, and raised an eyebrow at Remus’s antics. “I hope you’re not badmouthing me to the doctor.”

Remus snorted and leaned against Logan with vigor. Logan’s legs trembled under the effort, but Remus didn’t notice as he smiled. “Of _course_ I’m badmouthing you. That’s what brothers _do_.”

Stepping away from Remus – the man stumbled and laughed at his own incoordination – Logan smoothed his vest and cleared his throat. “Mr. Kingsley… I should thank you for your hospitality. And generosity. You didn’t have to—”

Roman waved that away. “Of course I did. Come, sit! You must still be unsteady! If I know anything about _anything_ , it’s the habits of a sickly man.”

Logan tried to fight it, but couldn’t tear himself away when Roman put a hand on his arm and gently towed him back to the fainting couch. There, he sat Logan down and poured him another glass of ice-cold water. Logan drank it, just to be polite, and Roman sat with him, smiling that hopeless, starry-eyed smiled. Logan tried to ignore it. He was trying... and failing.

From the doorway, Remus sighed. “ _Oh my…_ would you two just…” He waved his arms in the air vaguely. “Come with us to the Summer House, Dr. Stein. We need someone there, should Roman feel ill.”

Before Logan could deny the offer, Roman pivoted where he sat and gave his brother a wide-eyed look. “To the Summer Home? We haven’t… we haven’t gone since the summer that Mother and Father…” he paused, his sentence trailing off into nothingness as he fought the rest of the words in his mouth. Logan could see the tenseness in his shoulders. The _desire_ to say what he wanted. But he wouldn’t. There was sadness there. A pain under the posturing.

Logan held the cold glass in his hands. “I’d be delighted to travel to the Summer Home with you, Mr. Kingsley. If it should bring you some comfort, having a doctor on the premises.”

Roman turned, looked at him, and there weren’t stars in his eyes. No, there was a large, silver shine in them. Not tears. Not fear. More of a taught web of empathy that fought to tear out its seams. Roman looked at him, and Logan felt chains of emotion clamp around his wrists. No escape. Not from Roman, and definitely not the _feeling_ that shone desperately in his eyes.

Roman spoke gently. “You don’t have to do that. Surely, you’re a busy man.”

“Perhaps I could make the time,” Logan said softly. “For a friend.”

That shine in Roman’s eyes was bright. Bright enough to make the green of his eyes shine brighter than jade, brighter than emerald. Roman looked at him, and Logan felt it all the way to his bones. One lean forward, and Roman could ruin his life. One brush of his hand, and Roman could have his soul. Another word, and Logan would throw away anything and everything just to have Roman look at him for the rest of his life. That was startling. It was enough to rattle the earth.

Roman looked at him… and smiled happy, broken smile.

And Logan had fallen before he knew his feet had left the safety of the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, summertime! Hopefully Logan can keep his cool.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes. Feel free to say hi or ask questions over there!  
> See you next chapter!


	8. Sea-foam Sighs

Thomas knew that this should be unusual. His life, as it were. He was a historian, not a paranormal investigator. However, when he woke (in the evening now, rather than the morning), he would be greeted by a house full of ghosts.

Patton and Virgil liked to roam the halls and, on occasion, venture out into the gardens. That night, they were on the stairs talking idly. Patton was on the second floor landing while Virgil was a few steps down so they could be equal height. Thomas scratched a hand through his hair and yawned as he passed them.

“Good evening Thomas!” Patton said with a bright smile. “I hope you slept well.”

“Mornin’,” Thomas grumbled. Virgil chuckled at his tired expression and Thomas waved at them. “I’m slowly getting used to being nocturnal.”

Patton leaned his arms against the guardrail of the stairs and hummed. “Historians must lead difficult lives.”

“I assume _some_ more than others,” Virgil added gently. Patton giggled at that and the sound followed Thomas to the dining room where Dee and Remus were waiting.

They liked it there, Thomas had learned. Under the portrait of Dee with his stern, dangerous eyes and Roman’s painting hanging on the wall. Maybe it was the ambiance… or maybe it was the letters that were out on display on the table. Either way, Remus and Dee were sitting at the table waiting for him as he shuffled through the double-doors.

“Hello, boy!” Remus waved enthusiastically. “Come, sit! I’ll tell you the tale of how I almost got Roman run over by a carriage.”

Thomas kept walking and went into the kitchen. Remus followed him. “Sounds dangerous,” He said tiredly. He made a pot of coffee. Coffee in the middle of the night. Historians _do_ lead difficult lives.

Remus made a noise in the back of his throat. _“Well_ … I say I almost got him run over… but really, he just fell out of the carriage.”

The coffee pot hummed as it warmed. “Still sounds dangerous.”

Remus shrugged and leaned his hip against the counter. “He wasn’t _actually_ hit, Thomas. The carriage wasn’t even moving.”

“Then how did he fall out of the carriage?”

“I opened the door while he was leaning against it.”

Thomas gave him a horrified look. _“Why?”_

Remus made a face. “Because the urge _struck me_ and I just _did it_.”

“Sometimes impulses shouldn’t be followed, Remus.”

Remus laughed loudly. “Are you _scolding_ me, young man? You realize I’m _dead_ , don’t you? And the incident with the carriage happened when we were young.”

Dee appeared in the doorway with a dark expression. “And yet, because of that, Roman didn’t trust you in carriages again.”

Remus seemed to shrink a little. He didn’t say anything more on it, but Thomas could see guilt flickering through his expression. With a twitch of his mustache, Remus squared his shoulders and said, “Where did we leave off, Thomas?”

“You invited Logan to the Summer House,” said Thomas. He poured himself his coffee and went back to the dining room. He glanced up at the painting. _Roman’s_ painting. He blew on his coffee… and took a sip. “That’s the Summer House, isn’t it?”

Dee sat down at the head of the table, folded his hands, and eyed Remus as he said, “Lovely place, isn’t it? Nothing but _fond_ memories.”

Remus looked at him and Thomas felt like he’d stepped into the middle of a long-standing fight. “You know, when you speak sarcastically, it makes me want to tie you down.”

Dee smiled and it was more angry than devious. “Perhaps another time. When we aren’t in the presence of another person.”

Thomas cleared his throat. _“So…_ the Summer House?”

Remus quirked an eyebrow, plopped himself into a chair, and threw his legs up onto the table. “Ah, the Summer House! Mummy’s pride and joy — aside from Roman and I, her first pride and joy, respectively — it was a sea of memories, awash with regret and melancholy, dripping with—"

“The _liquid_ visualization is getting a bit labored, darling,” Dee said tiredly. Remus frowned at him.

“It’s the ocean, love. The ocean deserves as many watery descriptions as possible.”

Thomas sat down with his phone synced to his notes. Then, he started a dictation app and indicated for Remus to go on. “So. The Summer House was your mother’s?”

Remus looked at him, and his expression lost its exuberance. “It was. Mummy was… Mummy was always fond of the sea. She wanted to see it once more, before she passed.”

Thomas felt his stomach clench anxiously. “Is that why it makes you sad?”

Remus didn’t look at him. He turned to Roman’s painting and spoke as if the oil paints were telling him what to say. “We left on a Tuesday morning. Two carriages that rattled when they rolled. The seats were soft and warm... and the memories were hard and cold. Roman fell asleep during the ride, and I envied his peace.” There was a pause, and Remus sighed. “I wished the earth would split open and eat us whole. One, swift breath and we would be welcomed back into the dirt.”

Thomas took a breath, his hands tight around his coffee cup as he said, “I thought you _wanted_ to visit the Summer House.”

“I did,” Remus murmured softly, his eyes distant as he looked at the painting. Dee was watching him with a tight expression. Remus blinked, slow and thoughtful as he said, “I wanted to see the ocean that Mother loved. I think… I think I wanted to forget about the house that Father built for her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t.” Remus hummed. “I think I learned that too late.”

+++++

Five days. One week. It was hardly going to break Logan to go on this trip. However, he was still prickly about it. He was going on the behalf of _Roman_ and he wasn’t going for a holiday. No, he was going as a physician on-call. No relaxation and no leisure. That was fine. Logan was used to being busy.

When he approached Roman’s apartment that fateful Monday morning, Roman was already outside. He was _dressed_ that morning. With clean trousers, a good vest, and an overcoat, he looked ready to travel as he handed his bag to the coachman. He saw Logan, smiled, and greeted him with an open hand.

“Dr. Stein! Good of you to come so early,” he said, taking Logan’s hand and shaking it. He didn’t let go, though. He held Logan’s hand captive and squeezed it. Logan didn’t pull away.

“Good morning, Mr. Kingsley. You seem to be in good spirits.” He gave Roman a hard look. “If you’re feeling so well, perhaps you don’t _need_ a doctor.”

Roman laughed politely and released his hand. “Maybe not now. But if I _do_ need a doctor later on, I’d rather call on my _favorite_ doctor instead of a stranger.”

Logan sighed and handed his bag to the coachman where it was secured to the luggage rack. Then Patton danced down the front step and handed off _his_ luggage. Logan raised an eyebrow; Patton was coming to the Summer Home? Roman smiled at his expression.

“Patton is coming with us. I hope that’s alright?”

Logan’s expression twitched. “It isn’t my Summer Home, Mr. Kingsley. Far be it from me to regulate your guest list.” Roman chuckled, like this reply was something _amusing,_ and Patton stepped up to them with a smile.

“Lovely day for traveling, isn’t it?” He didn’t wait for a response as he clapped his hands together. “I’m raring to go!”

“Excellent!” Remus’s voice called around the carriage. He appeared a moment later, his head poking out of one of the carriage windows. “Keep that excitement! We’ll need it on this trip.”

Logan grimaced. He forgot about Remus. Remus, Patton, _and_ Roman… this would be a busy holiday. Before Logan could politely excuse himself and vanish back to his office, another man stepped around the second carriage and opened the door. Remus climbed out reluctantly, taking the offered hand of the stranger as he stepped down onto the pavement. With a flourish, Remus gestured to the man.

“Dr. Stein, allow me to introduce you to Mister Dee; banker, accountant, and general deviant.”

Dee glanced at Remus. “Interesting… _I’m_ the deviant, and you aren’t?”

Remus held a hand to his breast in mock offense. “I never said I wasn’t!”

Logan looked at Mr. Dee. He was finely dressed. Finer than both Roman and Remus. He wreaked of old money and power. Fair skin, cutting eyes, and a gold pocket watch chain that cost more than Logan’s education… he was an aristocrat on the highest, most intimidating caliber. Dee looked at him and Logan held his ground, squaring his shoulders as he fought to look unbothered by the intimidation that radiated from Dee. Dee smiled, and it looked murderous.

“So this is the famed Dr. Stein,” he said as he stepped forward and offered his hand. “Andréa Duell. But please… call me Mr. Dee.”

Logan took the hand that was offered. Dee attempted to crush his hand and Logan didn’t flinch. He shook his hand hard. “Charmed,” He said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure.”

Behind them, Remus snickered. “It’s like watching two tomcats spitting and growling at each other.”

Dee stepped away from Logan, seemingly disinterested with him as he looked at Remus. “Are you calling me a tomcat?”

Remus raised an eyebrow and grinned. He neither confirmed nor denied.

As if they were ushering in the last of the travel party, Virgil stepped over the threshold of Roman _(Patton’s)_ apartment with a little girl hot on his heels. It must’ve been Clara. Logan’s brow furrowed; why were _they_ in the apartment?

Remus planted his hands on his hips and grinned wildly. “Wonderful! Everyone is accounted for! Let’s _go_ , I’m tired of the city.”

Roman rolled his eyes and looked at Logan. “He’ll be begging to come back tomorrow.”

Patton giggled and took Clara into his arms. Then he opened the door to the carriage. Logan stared. Was the _child_ coming with them? Were they leaving Virgil alone? Logan glanced at him and Virgil, against all reason, handed a bag up to the coachmen. 

Stepping close to him, Logan put a hand on Virgil’s bicep and said, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

Virgil looked at him and hissed, “I didn’t even know _you_ were going.”

“Perhaps it’s because you’re so busy,” Logan grumbled, a little prickly. Virgil gave him an unimpressed look. “We haven’t spoken since last week.”

“I have a daughter, Logan. Of course I’m going to be busy.”

“I’m not saying you _shouldn’t_ be—”

“Gentleman,” Dee said from the carriage next to them. He looked calm and reposed, but there was a sharp edge to the way his eyes narrowed and crinkled at the edges. “If we’re ready to leave…”

Roman chuckled. “Leave the doctor and the engraver _with the bad coat_ alone, Andréa.”

Dee didn’t look impressed, but added a rather stiff, “Shall we?”

Virgil climbed into the carriage with Patton and Clara… and Logan glanced back at Roman. Roman was looking at him, a hand nearly lifting to invite Logan into _his_ carriage, only to have Dee step forward and offer Roman a hand.

“Up you go,” Dee said with that dangerous smile. Roman smiled, stepped up into the carriage with Remus, and Dee followed them. The carriage door closed and the message was clear: _You aren’t allowed in this carriage._

So, a little irritated, Logan climbed into Virgil and Patton’s carriage. And after a moment of shifting, the men on the boxes snapped their reigns. And they were off, twisting through the streets of London and headed south, toward the open countryside and, eventually, the coastline. 

Long-distance carriage rides had never been Logan’s strong suit. This could have been because the last time he left London, he went to study in Edinburgh and Edinburg was considerably cooler than going south. Perhaps he was bitter because he hadn’t realized how many other people were coming with them. And Mr. Dee didn’t seem to appreciate his presence anyway. And he had to deal with _that,_ in addition to Roman, for five days.

 _“We’re going for the week, my good man,”_ Remus had said to him when he extended the invitation. _“No need to turn blue.”_

But that would mean five days of not working, if Roman stayed well. Five days of inactivity. What did people _do_ with spare time? Sleep? Drink? Logan wanted to smoke his pipe and be angry about it; he’d forgotten how to be _leisurely._ It was a startling and unwelcome realization.

Furthermore, traveling south in a carriage wasn’t exactly what one would call pleasant. The novelty wore off after the first twenty minutes and the rest was monotonous. And Logan didn’t even have the comfort of being _alone_ in the carriage. No, he was in a carriage with Patton, Virgil, and a little girl. Clara, he had learned. He hadn’t even met her until that very morning. So far, she’d been well-behaved and quiet.

Next to him, Virgil crossed his arms and looked out the window angrily. “Bollocks. That’s what I have to say.”

Patton gasped and put his hands over Clara’s ears. It was little help, considering Clara had fallen asleep nearly an hour ago. She was curled in Patton’s lap on one side of the carriage while Logan and Virgil were packed together on the other. Still, Patton hissed, _“Virgil._ Language, please.”

Virgil continued to grimace. “This. Is. _Bollocks._ ” Logan had to stifle a bit of laughter as Patton blushed and shook his head. Virgil went on, “The Kingsley’s inviting _us?”_ He said, indicating to himself and Logan. “It’s a conspiracy. We’re probably sacrifices to their ‘remain rich’ ritual.”

Logan nodded sagely. “Seems like a more than reasonable assumption.”

Patton huffed. “Roman invited me, and he _knew_ I’d be lonely without you, so he extended the invitation to you, Virgil. And we can’t leave Clara alone, so of _course_ she’d be coming with us.”

Virgil grimaced. “So, _Logan_ is the ritual sacrifice.” He patted Logan’s shoulder solemnly. “It was nice knowing you.”

“Thank you,” Logan said briefly. He looked out the window of the carriage and saw nothing but green grass. He sighed. “Bury me shallow.”

“Why?” Virgil grinned and nudged him. “Will you come back to haunt me?”

“Ghosts don’t exist.”

Virgil sighed. “You’re no _fun_.”

Patton made a face and pet Clara’s hair as she slept. “The two of you are such _pessimists_. You don’t really think we invited you as _sacrifices,_ do you?”

Virgil stretched out his legs as far as he could in the carriage, ending up with his knee nestled between Patton’s. “Could be. Can’t imagine why your tenant would invite me otherwise.”

Patton straightened his glasses. “As I said, because I’d _miss_ you, dearest.”

Virgil smiled helplessly. “And now you have me and you’re _stuck_ with me.”

Logan looked away. Things between the two of them had gotten syrupy-sweet and he could barely handle it. When had they become this close? He wasn’t sure. Sometime after Clara had been brought into Virgil’s home. The little girl didn’t seem affected by the… _whatever_ was going on between Patton and Virgil. In fact, she seemed happy and healthy. Healthy enough to eat the crackers offered to her early that morning and fall asleep in Patton’s lap.

Logan wasn’t _upset_ by their relationship. Whatever it really was. He wasn’t bothered by it, either. But there was a deep-seated jealousy. One that Logan couldn’t quite understand in himself. Was it because he wanted whatever they had? That intimate, desperate desire to be in each other’s company? Or was he jealous that his best friend had been snatched from his graces and hadn’t come to see him in over three weeks? It could be neither. It could be both.

Logan _wanted_ something. His friend’s attention, his happy smile, the comfort that blanketed him like a sheltering cloak… Logan _wanted_ that feeling. He wasn’t about to insert himself between Virgil and Patton. Nor was he going to seek it out with exuberance. That wasn’t Logan’s way. Instead, he resigned himself to quietly wanting. Wanting in a way that didn’t go beyond his person and wouldn’t bother anyone else. A silent, desperate want. One that, for a reason that made him exceedingly uneasy, made him think of Roman Kingsley.

In the carriage ahead of them, Roman, Remus, and Dee were comfortably watching the countryside go by. Remus was oddly quiet, his fingers scratching at the velvet lining of the coach as Dee watched him. Against Dee’s shoulder, Roman was fast asleep. Hopefully that didn’t signify an oncoming fever.

After a long while of quiet — odd for Remus to go so long without talking — Dee spoke up and said, “Remus. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Remus looked at him. Then at Roman. Then he frowned. “Why doesn’t Roman sleep on _my_ shoulder?”

Dee raised an eyebrow. “Because you threw him out of a moving carriage when you were little.”

“I didn’t _throw_ him and the carriage wasn’t _moving_ and it was _one time.”_ Remus sat back and crossed his arms. “Roman is too sensitive.”

“Remus,” Dee tried again. “You haven’t been to the house in so long…”

Remus shrugged and looked out the window. “It’s still in the family name and we’ve maintained the upkeep. It’ll be presentable.”

Dee narrowed his eyes. “Remus.”

“And I want to see the ocean again!” Remus said in a whining voice. Roman made a soft noise in his sleep, shifted, and settled back against Dee’s shoulder. Remus sank in his seat a bit. “We’re already on our way. Roman will get a romantic getaway and I get sand in my trousers. What’s not to love?”

Dee rolled his eyes as he shifted and leaned back against the cushions. Roman leaned with him, not stirring where he was sound asleep. “We’ve seen the ocean before, my dear. All from the comfort of the Duell Family home on the coast.” Remus avoided looking at him, choosing to glare out the window instead. Dee almost pitied the lost look that hid behind the fake anger. “ _Remus_. Darling. As your husband, can you—“

“If you tell me to be honest, I’m going to shove my fingers in your mouth.”

“Tempting as that may be,” Dee said calmly, “I simply want to know your motivation. If you wanted Roman and the doctor to be in close-quarters together, you could’ve chosen any number of ways to accomplish it. You didn’t _have_ to make a trip to your family summer home.”

Remus looked out the window and frowned at the gray skies ahead of them. “I want to see the ocean.”

“And you can. I’d _give you_ the sea if I could. I’d capture any star that caught your eye. I’d burn Buckingham if it pleased you. Remus, _please_.” After a moment of thought, Remus took a breath and looked at him. Dee’s brow was furrowed with confusion. “You _hate_ your family summer home. Why are you doing this?”

Remus stared at him with Dark, green eyes. “It’s been twelve years since my mother and father died.”

“Remus—“

“And they died in that house. Am I supposed to be afraid of it? To be angry for the rest of my life?”

Dee hesitated. “You enjoy holding grudges, my love.”

“I do,” Remus sighed as he looked out the window. In the distance, it started to rain. “But Mother loved that house. I can’t avoid it forever.”

“You could,” Dee said decisively. “Say the word and we’ll go to one of the Duell estates. We’ll turn the carriages around and go back to London if need be.” Remus shook his head, and Dee frowned deeply. “We don’t _have_ to go there, Remus. You don’t like it there.”

“I can’t avoid it forever,” Remus said softly, his voice sounding oddly hollow. “Roman is moving forward. He used to hate any doctor and now look at him…” they both paused to look at Roman’s calm, sleeping face. “He’s in love with a doctor. A _doctor_. After what happened with mother and father. After being _so angry_ for _so long…_ ”

He could remember Roman’s betrayed, agonized expression. He remembered Father giving him bits of last-minute advice. _“When you find someone that you love, someone you really, truly adore, you tell them. Tell them you cherish them. That they are so deeply loved. Never let them go a day without hearing it.”_

He remembered his Mother reaching out for them, holding their hands and wishing them happiness as they lived on without her. _“Even if I’m not here with you, you must promise. Promise. That you’ll be happy. That’s all I want. For my boys to be happy.”_

He remembered the doctor saying there was still hope. He remembered broken promises. He remembered Roman hanging onto each word… and the crushed, dashed hopes as they found their parents dead in their bed. Remus glowered out the carriage window.

Dee was gentle as he said, “You can stay angry. Losing such an important part of your life is painful. Sometimes hate is the only thing holding us together.”

Remus frowned and looked away again. “Is that a deep, careful statement? Or am I just shallow?”

“Neither.” Dee looked at him. “Or both. What would make you happy?”

Remus’s lips twitched with the suggestion of a smile. “You’ll say whatever I want if it’ll make me happy.”

“I will.”

“You’d lie to me if it would make me happy?”

“I already do.”

Remus looked at him. Dee met his eye with a level stare. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake. That I’m doing the right thing.”

Dee was soft as he said, “This isn’t a mistake. You’re doing the right thing.”

“Are you lying to me?”

Dee smiled and it shone in his eyes as he replied: “I love you.”

Remus looked away… and smiled. “I love you, too. More than my own life.”

That, at the very least, was true.

+++++

They arrived late in the afternoon. It was the time of day where the sun was high but not too warm. Behind them, the Summer House gleamed clean and white against the tall grasses around them. The sky above them was blue, but over the sea, it was a steel gray. The waves were dark and the coastline was covered in dark, wet sand. Even so, Clara seemed to think it was _incredible._

As soon as Virgil took her from the carriage and set her on the ground, she was off and running for the water, her fiery hair shining bright in the sun. Virgil snatched her sun-bonnet from the carriage and gave chase.

“Clara! Clara, your _bonnet_ — _Clara!”_

Logan watched him run. It was interesting to see his friend making a fuss over a little girl. _His_ little girl, now. She was fair-skinned and freckled already… it was no wonder he wanted to put a bonnet on her. She would burn bright-red without it.

Next to him, Patton smiled helplessly, his eyes following Virgil and Clara’s shapes as they made reached the sand. They kicked at the sand, laughing and shouting, and Virgil picked Clara up and spun her in slow, swooping circles. Clara’s laughter was bright and happy, and Patton looked beside himself with contentment. Logan turned away and went reaching for his luggage.

While he worked, Dee came from his own carriage and stood next to Patton with his hands behind his back. They were quiet for a moment, watching Virgil and Clara play in the sand, before Dee said, “Your beau seems to have gotten away from you.”

Patton fluttered his hands, a little embarrassed as he flushed and said, “My… beau? I wouldn’t… say that he’s—”

Dee hummed and rocked on his heels. “Your… gentleman caller?” Patton laughed breathlessly, and Dee smiled at him. “You seem happy, Mr. Moore.”

“I am,” Patton said softly. His eyes stuck to Virgil and Clara where they played in the sand. “I’m very happy.”

“Good. With all the mumblings from Roman being translated to me through Remus, I was beginning to lose patience.”

“Mumblings?” Patton echoed incredulously. Logan paused behind the carriage, his bag heavy in his hands as he listened to the conversation. “Roman has been gossiping about me?”

“Of course,” Dee said, as if it was obvious. “And I’m happy to hear the issue with Clara’s father has been…” he hesitated before saying, “ _Resolved_.”

There was a significant pause. Logan wasn’t sure what Patton was doing. Maybe he was looking at Dee. Maybe he was fidgeting where he stood. Maybe he was grimacing. Whatever it was, Patton’s next words were hardly more than a whisper.

“Dee. Did… did you…?” There was no answer. Patton cleared his throat and Logan saw him step away from the carriage and make his way to the beach. He didn’t look back as he said, “It looks like good fun! I’m going to go with them. If you’ll excuse me.”

Dee hummed pleasantly. “Enjoy the sun, Mr. Moore.”

Logan ducked around the other side of the carriage, keen on avoiding Dee’s line of sight as he made his way up the front steps of the summer house. Roman was waiting on the top step, standing in the doorway and looking out at the sea with an unreadable expression. The wind swept in from the waves and ruffled his hair. He looked shaken by something… but not the sea.

Logan didn’t get to put his bag down before a maid came and took it from him. It disappeared into the house, but he didn’t follow. He stayed next to Roman, casting a glance in his direction whenever he could. Before he could say anything, Remus stumbled out of his carriage and looked around in a daze.

“What happened?” He asked no one in particular. Dee pivoted where he stood to give Remus a gentle smile.

“You fell asleep.”

Remus looked at him, obviously startled, and then he saw the ocean. He was off and running before he could properly find his footing, screaming as he went: “The sea! It’s the sea! The sea that runs red with the sunset like the robes of the cardinals!”

Logan made a face. “What on earth?”

Roman cocked his head to the side. “I think he says things to offend people on purpose. He likes the spectacle. Even though half our family is from Italy and we have _multiple_ extended family members in the clergy.”

“I wasn’t aware the Kingsley’s were from Italy.”

“I didn’t see a reason to broach the topic. And it’s not the Kingsley's… it was my Mother.” Roman looked far away when he said, “She was born in Northern Italy and her parents emigrated to England early in her childhood. But mother still spoke of her first home often. We visited her motherland when I was little. Funny enough, on a visit to Italy, we met Andréa for the first time. It wasn’t until many years later that we made the connection.”

Logan squinted. “Andréa?”

Roman laughed and looked at him with sparkling eyes. “Did he tell you to call him ‘Dee?’ He’s always been so prickly about his name. It’s from his father.”

“Ah, right,” Logan turned back to the sea, watching Remus kick off his shoes and tumble into the sand without coordination. Dee was watching him passively where he stood by the carriages. He kept his back to Logan. That was fine. “Mr. Dee,” he said softly. “Doesn’t seem to care for me.”

“Oh, he’s alright,” Roman said idly. He was far off again, fading like mist in the sunrise the longer Logan looked at him. Roman’s voice was soft, like he wasn’t sure he was speaking as he said, “Andréa is just overprotective.”

From a distance, Remus shouted, “Roman! Come see the blood of pious men!”

Logan opened his mouth to say ‘what’ and Roman cut him off by saying: “Waves. He wants me to come see the waves.”

Logan looked at him. “Don’t you want to?”

All of a sudden Roman seemed small where he stood. His skin seemed too pale and his hair looked too mussed to be alluring. He simply looked rattled. He shook his head. “No. I don’t.” He reached for Logan and Logan met him with an open hand, supporting Roman as he turned away from the waves and into the house. “I think… I think I need to lie down.”

Logan helped him inside, keeping Roman close as they turned away from the sea and stepped into the house. 

Dee watched them go.

Logan was holding Roman steady and following his instructions through the halls. It wasn’t an ornate home, strictly speaking. It was more _homey_ than luxurious. The floors were fine, polished wood and fine paintings hung on each wall. The colors were warm and it felt more welcoming than the Duell Estate. (Given that Logan had been in the Estate for half an hour while he recovered from heatstroke, he viewed it as “obnoxious” and “overly decorated.”)

Once they reached the sitting room, Logan helped Roman to the fainting couch and went into his default behavior. Rolling up his sleeves, he became Dr. Stein once more.

“Are you experiencing any pain, Mr. Kingsley?” Roman shook his head, his eyes a little listless as Logan took his wrist and checked his pulse. It was slightly elevated. “Do you feel warm?”

Roman blinked slowly. “A bit, I suppose.”

Logan reached over to remove Roman’s coat and Roman obligingly moved his arms. Then, Logan paused. What was he doing? He couldn’t just _remove_ someone’s clothes. He stepped back and Roman glanced at him, his arms still caught in his sleeves.

“Pardon me,” Logan said, a little irritated when his face flushed of its own volition. He cleared his throat as Roman removed his coat and draped it over the edge of the couch.

“Why do you need to be pardoned?”

“I was presumptuous,” Logan said flatly, “Removing your coat like that.”

Roman smiled and laughed airily. “I like when you presume, Doctor. You’re so honest.”

“Is that so.”

“It is,” Roman said softly. His eyes slid around the room slowly and he let out a breath. “I feel warm.”

Well. If that was the case, Logan was free to take some liberties and act on his instincts as a doctor. Without asking, Logan knelt before him, taking the heel of Roman’s shoe and carefully pulling it off. Roman looked down at him, his green, green irises watching him in a manner that made Logan’s stomach turn. Carefully, he took Roman’s other foot and removed the shoe. That would help him cool down. 

Then, he helped Roman lie back on the fainting couch. Normally, women draped themselves on the lounge, dramatic and haughty as they sought attention. Laid out like this, Roman Kingsley was not dramatic. He looked fragile where he laid his head back and stared out the window. Beyond the glass, the ocean waves never paused.

Logan opened the window, letting in the cool breeze. Roman closed his eyes and breathed deep. The furrow of his brow didn’t go unmissed.

“I’m sorry,” Logan said, unsure why he did. Roman opened his eyes to give him a perplexed smile. Logan straightened his glasses. “It must be difficult. Coming all this way, only to feel ill.”

Roman crossed his legs on the sofa, a sleepy look in his eyes. “Let it be what it is… the sea isn’t going anywhere. It’ll be there when I sleep, it’ll be there when I wake.”

Logan looked at him, and Roman’s smile cracked a bit, like the pressure was too much to handle. He looked away, and Logan chased him, sitting on the edge of the couch and waiting for Roman to meet him. Without hesitation, Roman reached for him. Their hands met, warm bare skin against skin. They didn’t part.

“Dr. Stein, I find you to be wonderful company,” he said softly. Logan tensed. There was a ‘but’ coming after that sentence. There almost always was. Roman didn’t want him here. He wanted to be alone. Logan prepared himself to be dismissed… but the dismissal never came. Roman was quiet. His statement was finished. Logan shifted where he sat.

“I find that difficult to believe,” he said lowly. Roman looked at him with an amused smile, and Logan said, “I’m hardly entertaining.”

“You don’t have to be an _entertainer_ to be good company. Sometimes you simply need to _be_ and it’s enough. The wonder of companionable silence knows no bounds.”

Logan gave him a sidelong look. “You aren’t normally _silent_ , Mr. Kingsley.”

“When I’m ill, I am. I’m very quiet.”

Logan made a face. “But you have this will to create, Mr. Kingsley. An exuberance that never ends. It’s a shame that your illness subdues your boldness.”

Roman laughed out loud at that. “Exuberance, he says! Oh, by the goddess of poetry, _exuberance_.” Roman chuckled to himself and Logan smiled at the wall. After Roman caught his breath, he turned his head to look out the window again. Silence. The smell of the salt on the air came through the window, and Roman sighed. “You think I’m _bold,_ Doctor?”

“You are, Mr. Kingsley.”

“I’m not,” Roman smiled at the sea, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. It was a misplaced smile, lost with the fear and pain that flickered in Roman’s eyes. “I’m an incredible coward.”

Logan didn’t say anything. He watched Roman’s smile as he eyed the coast. The wind picked up his hair, ruffling the curls where he lay, quiet and vulnerable, next to Logan. Logan reached over and brushed Roman’s hair from his eyes. Roman looked at him, and Logan snatched his hand back. Why did he do that? Roman was looking at him. _Staring_ at him.

“You’re gentle,” Roman murmured like an afterthought. Logan glanced at him, and Roman smiled. “ _What brilliant deftness comes from a hand that knows death’s grasp._ ”

Logan stared at him. “That’s… one way to put it. Who said that?”

“I did,” Roman said distantly. “Just now.”

“Poetic,” Logan said numbly. Roman smiled and reached for his wrist, pulling it closer. Logan smiled and scooted a little closer on the couch. “If I weren’t so observant, I might say you were a child begging for attention.”

Roman’s eyes went wide as he gasped in mock offense. “ _Child._ Oh, how _dare_ you. I am an _artist_ begging for attention.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Is there a difference, Mr. Kingsley?”

Roman laughed a bit, “Probably not.” Then, he closed his eyes. The wind came through again, and he sighed happily. “The breeze feels nice.”

Logan looked down at the hand on his wrist. Roman didn’t release him, and he didn’t want to be let go. He smiled. “You should rest, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman hummed, his eyes closed and muscles relaxing. Before he went under, Roman’s eyes cracked open and he murmured, “Will you stay?”

Logan felt all of his training tell him not to stay. He was a professional and this was very _unprofessional._ He should have declined. He should have left Roman to rest on his own. But against all reason, Logan put his hand on Roman’s and listened to the waves.

“I’ll stay.”

+++++

A purple sky started to spread from the west, ushering the sunset out and drawing in the starry skies. Virgil walked barefoot to the Summer House with Clara asleep against his shoulder while Patton carried their shoes — and Clara’s unused bonnet. Remus and Dee walked a fair distance behind them, their steps slow and considering as they approached the house. Remus looked at the structure with distrusting eyes.

His parents had died there. He didn’t want to go inside.

Roman knew that their mother loved the sea. He didn’t want to go to the coast.

They were a pair of strangely damaged twins… just in different ways. When Patton and Virgil stepped into the house, Remus took a detour and dragged Dee along the edge of the property, their shoes crunching on the smooth dirt roads. Remus took his hand and swung it as they walked and Dee went willingly, quiet and complacent as Remus avoided walking over the threshold.

“Andréa,” he said without warning. Dee sighed.

“You and your brother, using my _name…”_

Remus ignored that and said, “I want a black silk bonnet.”

Dee glanced at him. “I’d buy you any bonnet you want, darling.”

Remus pursed his lips. “And if I want to stab a man?”

“I’d let you do that, too.”

Remus snickered. “You’re _spoiling_ me. I need to give you a present in return. A nude portrait perhaps?”

Dee was careful as he turned and started back toward the house, pulling Remus along with him. Remus hesitated… and then he followed. He couldn’t walk around the edge of the property all night.

Note: Yes, he _could_ but Dee wasn’t going to _let him_.

So they made their way back to the Summer House, watching the lights that were being carefully lit in the windows. The staff was surely preparing supper, if it wasn’t already finished. Dee looked at Remus, and he didn’t look happy. He looked uncomfortable. Dee squeezed his hand.

“What can I do to comfort you, Remus?” He asked. “What can I say to make you smile?”

Remus stopped, glared at the house, and said, “Tell me my parents didn’t die here. Tell me they’re still alive. Tell me they’ll be there when I walk through the door. Tell me I’ll be able to introduce you to them. Mother will love you. Farther will think you’re a keen businessman. Tell me…” Remus stopped, pressed his lips together, and pulled his hand from Dee’s. “Don’t. Don’t tell me anything.”

So he didn’t. He stayed quiet, following Remus back to the house. Remus obviously wanted to be alone, but being alone was a dangerous place to be. When alone, loneliness could be gratifying; no one could see how weak you were. But at the same time, it was cold. And angry. A bitter kind of feeling that never, _ever_ wanted to go away. Dee wasn’t going to leave Remus on his own. Not when Remus was so spectacularly self-destructive.

They entered the house, a maid told them supper was ready, and Remus stalked past her. Dee quietly gave the girl his coat, watching Remus as he marched up the stairs.

“Remus, my dear… supper is ready.”

“I’m not hungry!” Remus shouted back to him.

Remus sighed and looked at the maid. “Serve without us. I might send for something later in the evening.” The girl nodded and scuttled off to hang up his coat, and Dee followed Remus up the stairs. He heard a door slam hard, and he followed the sound. The halls were narrower than those of his family estate. It was a smaller house, after all. So he found his and Remus’s room rather easily. He stepped inside, closed the door quietly, and watched Remus.

He was at the mirror, his hands clenched on the vanity table as he looked down at his shaving kit. A sharp blade, a brush, and a towel. Dee narrowed his eyes, ready to take away the kit should the need arise, only to have Remus sit down at the vanity with tired, slumped shoulders.

“Andréa,” He said carefully. He took the blade and turned to Dee. “Help me?”

Dee nodded and stepped forward. He prepared the lather as Remus trimmed down his mustache, then, only when he was ready, Dee spread the lather across his upper lip. Then he took the blade from Remus’s hand. 

He was the better of the two when it came to shaving. Perhaps because he was handier with a blade. Or maybe because he was more careful with Remus than Remus was with himself. Remus shaved too quickly, cut himself often, and then blamed the blade. It had become far too routine for Dee to stand over him and carefully shave away his morning scruff.

This time, Remus closed his eyes and put his hands on Dee’s hips, as if he needed to brace himself. It didn’t take long to shave a mustache, but Dee took his time, tilting Remus’s head back and going slow. When he was finished, he wiped Remus’s face with the warm towel, set the blade aside, and kissed him. It was odd, not feeling the tickle of facial hair… but it was still Remus. He could tell with the way Remus bit his lower lip when he tried to step back. He kissed him again, just for good measure.

When he finally pulled away, Remus looked up at him with a face that looked much younger than before. Much more _exposed_. Remus wiped a hand over his mouth and frowned.

“I feel _naked_ without my mustache.”

Dee cleaned the blade. “You look younger, too. If only a bit.”

Remus smiled at him. “Too young for you?”

Dee raised his eyebrows and glanced at Remus. “You look like your brother.”

Remus pursed his lips and stood, going to the wardrobe to find something specific. He shed pieces of clothing as he went, tossing his shirt and vest across the room as he said, “That’s not so terrible. Roman is _almost_ as good-looking as me.”

Dee rolled his eyes and packed up the shaving kit. Then, he went to help Remus with his stockings. He sat on the bed, allowing Remus to brace his foot on Dee’s thigh so he could pull a thin, black stocking up over his calf. Dee held his leg and kissed the side of his knee.

“Black stockings?” He said, eyeing the way Remus winked at him. The leg was taken away and the other replaced it. Dee held his heel as Remus pulled on the other stocking. Dee looked at him. “You know, my wife is supposed to be mild-mannered.”

Remus scoffed and stepped away, throwing open the wardrobe and digging until he found a silk dressing gown. He pulled that over his shoulders, not nothing to die it as he went for his collection of dresses. He picked a black one. Dee sighed; he wasn’t being _tempting_. He was _mourning_. 

Dee couldn’t be upset with this. He’d never gotten to meet Remus and Roman’s parents. He only knew they were exceptional people. He knew that Remus got a prickly, restless look on his face when Dee’s mother, _Lady_ Dee, was in their presence. He missed his parents, and Dee couldn’t do much to make it better.

So he made himself useful, stepping forward to lace up the back of Remus’s corset. He helped him lift the skirts and step into them, and he laced those, too. Hair was combed back and delicate, black-lace gloves were pulled over Remus’s hands. Then Remus stepped away, wandering back to the vanity and pulling out a slew of powders and makeup. Remus became paler. Rouge was applied to Remus’s cheeks. Finally, Remus took a bonnet and tied the satin ribbon under their chin.

When Remus was done, she had become Miss Dee. She looked at herself in the mirror, her green eyes looking lost and irritated. Dee watched her. Her hair curled over her brow, artful and sweet in a way that Remus has never been. Dee came to stand behind her, his hands in her shoulders as he looked at the reflection.

“You look lovely.”

Remus frowned. “Mother looked lovelier.”

“Nonsense,” Dee kissed the top of her head. “You inherited her beauty.”

Remus stared at her reflection for a long, long time. Then she stood, tucking herself into Dee’s arms before she said in a soft voice, “Take me to supper.”

Dee raised an eyebrow. “I will. If you want. It’s not often I get to show you off to others.”

Remus smiled and gave him a devious look. “Because I’m secret. A _mystery_ wife.”

“Another reason I’m the topic of gossip,” Dee sighed as he led them to the door. They walked leisurely with Remus’s skirts _hush-shushing_ against the floors. Dee put a firm arm around her waist. “You know. The few times I _do_ bring you out, men stop and stare.”

“They want to steal me away!” Remus feigned a swoon, tipping into Dee’s waiting arms with a grin. “Oh, dear, _darling_ husband… what will you do if someone wants to take your woman away?”

Dee took her hand and kissed the back of her lacy glove. “I’ll make them disappear.”

Remus smiled darkly. “Like a violent magician.”

“Like a gentleman,” Dee corrected stiffly. Remus giggled and Dee took her to the dining room. “Come along, then. Your public awaits.”

+++++

Roman looked up from his plate when Dee and Remus entered the dining room. He raised an eyebrow; it had been a while since he’d seen the famed “Miss Dee.” Something must’ve happened.

Quietly, Dee led Remus to her chair, pulled it out for her, and every man at the table stood politely. Well, almost every man. Virgil stayed seated, looking at everyone in confusion before he hesitantly stood and sat down when Remus took a seat. She and Dee were at the far end of the long dining table, farthest away from Roman and Logan. Most likely to the doctor’s detriment. Roman went back to eating, keen on finishing his soup before people asked _questions._

Unfortunately, Logan Stein was the curious sort.

“I didn’t see this lady come with us,” he said softly, like he was whispering a conspiracy in Roman’s ear. He didn’t mind. Roman liked the way Logan leaned toward him to murmur, “Was she already here, in the house, before we arrived?”

Roman hummed and stirred his soup. “She must’ve traveled ahead of us. Miss Dee is delicate.”

Logan leaned back and glanced at the other end of the table. “I wasn’t aware Mr. Dee was married.” Smiling to himself, Roman sipped at his soup. Then Logan asked a dangerous question. “I have to wonder where your brother has gone.”

Roman pursed his lips and caught Remus’s eye across the table. There was a hint of thought there. They _could_ tell Dr. Stein. But how would he react? The gentle touch of a hand was _very_ different from accepting the idea of two men marrying. So Roman took a long drink from his water glass and said, “With luck, Remus walked into the ocean and returned himself to the deep, dark depths. He was so _keen_ on seeing the waves.”

Across the table, Remus glowered, but said nothing in her defense. She couldn’t, really. It would reveal the ruse. So she picked up her glass of wine and drank slowly, her green eyes narrowed and glaring daggers at her twin. Roman smiled at her.

“One has to wonder if he dislikes the house,” Roman said to himself as he stirred his soup. Remus continued to glare and Dee gave him a warning glance. Roman chinked the silver against the bowl. Logan looked at him and Roman stared at the broth. “I can’t blame him. There are a lot of memories in this place.”

Through the discomfort in the air, Virgil spoke up. “It was kind of you to invite us. I’ve never been to a summer home before.”

“I liked the sand,” Clara said with a sleepy smile. Everyone smiled at her, and she beamed under the attention. “The water was cold and salty!”

“That’s because it’s the ocean, dove.” Virgil wiped her chin. When she yawned, he chuckled. “You’re going to fall asleep in your soup.”

“I’ll put her to bed,” Patton said softly. He pushed out his chair and gave the others a smile. “If you’ll excuse me.”

With Clara tucked safely in his arms, Patton retreated from the dining room. Virgil was quick to follow with a vague excuse for why he couldn’t stay for dessert. It left Remus, Roman, Dee and Logan alone and eating quietly. Roman wasn’t sure what to do with this setting. Normally, it was fun having a sister for a while. Remus would like to dance with him and she’d step on his feet on purpose. Roman would get back at her with quick turns that made her stumble and laugh. They liked to trick noblemen, inspiring gossip and awed discussion about Mr. Dee having a weak point. And that weak point would _always_ be his spouse.

Now, it was just quiet. No dancing, no laughing… just quiet. Maybe it was the house. Maybe it was the sea. Maybe it was neither. Roman almost _wished_ he felt ill so he had an excuse to go to bed.

Dee spoke first, breaking the silence with a sharp, “Dr. Stein. I hear you studied in Edinburgh.” A pause, and then, “Under a professor I don’t recognize.”

Logan looked up from his meal, giving Dee a guarded look. Roman shifted uncomfortably. Was Dee trying to scare Logan away? That wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of him. Logan set his silverware aside and met Dee’s gaze evenly. The steely, determined look in his eyes made Roman fall in love all over again. 

“I would have been taught the same information by any professor, Mr. Dee, I assure you. Medicine is medicine.”

Dee cocked his head to the side with a coy smile. Remus watched him, a careful expression on her face as Dee said, “Oh, of _course_ , Doctor. Far be it from the medical field to be advancing and growing under _greater_ teachers.”

Roman flinched at that, and he wasn’t even the one being insulted. Logan, however, stood firm. “The medical field is always growing. So learning will always be a part of my career. I don’t claim to know everything.”

Dee smiled and it looked poisonous. “Don’t you?”

“No,” Logan said sternly. Roman looked at him, seeing the calm, almost placid expression on his face. “I will always be seeking knowledge. I will _always_ be looking for new ways to assist the sickly. Pride is no object in the face of ignorance.”

Roman nearly swooned out of his chair. He looked at Dee, eager to see how he’d react, and Dee… Dee only smiled. It was like he was _waiting_ for Logan to show humility. The poison left his smile and he looked far more human.

“Well said, Doctor.” Dee went back to his meal, like the conversation was just a trifle and hadn’t been an attempted backhanded insult to Logan’s education. Without warning, Remus reached out, touching Dee’s hand with her own.

“The doctor has made a point to care for Roman,” she said gently, her voice _much_ different from Roman’s brother. It was softer. Higher and more reserved. She spoke, but her eyes remained that familiar, sharp green as she looked at Roman and smiled. “He should be given credit where credit is due.”

Dee said nothing more, choosing to eat the rest of his meal in silence. Roman and Logan had started earlier, and finished faster. Roman regretted eating quietly… but Remus was obviously in a Mood, and he had no way to fix it. Remus hated the house. Roman hated the sea. Neither of them knew how to properly decompress. So it was quiet and Logan's presence was a small comfort.

When all was done and everyone went to tend to their evening affairs, Roman and Logan had to part ways. Logan was sent to a large room that was far too expensive and luxurious for his taste. At least his bags had been left alone and he didn’t have to go searching for his belongings. The rest, however, was a foreign kind of luxury. 

The curtains were sheer and decorative. The bedspread was thick and warm. Roman flickered through the forefront of Logan’s mind; he would be warm, that night. Warm and healthy. Hopefully, he would be entirely well in the morning. Quietly, Logan shed his vest and prepared for bed, going for his bed clothes as he went. It hadn’t been a busy day… but travel made one weary, and he was ready to lie down.

Then someone knocked on his door.

Logan paused, turned, and straightened his glasses. Was it Roman? He could be unwell again. It could be Dee, ready to insult him again. He could have even been Remus, still wet from the ocean waves and ready to terrorize him with bloody-poetry. Bracing himself, Logan went to the door, opened it, and saw Virgil smiling at him awkwardly. Clara was asleep on his shoulder.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Good evening.”

“I need a favor.”

Logan arched an eyebrow. “A favor.”

“Could she stay in your room for the night? We don’t want to leave her alone,” Virgil whispered lowly. ‘ _We’_ meant him and Patton, no doubt. Why would they need Clara out of the room? Logan blinked, swallowed, and shook his head tiredly. They wanted to be _alone_. Virgil’s expression turned a little desperate. “Please. She’s out for the night, I swear.”

Logan fidgeted. He didn’t often work with children, and when he did, they were sick and fussy. But Clara was asleep and breathing deep and slow. With a sigh, Logan stepped back and allowed Virgil inside.

“Oh, _thank you, thank you_ …” he went straight to the bed, pulled back the blankets, and laid Clara on the plush mattress. She wiggled, reaching up for him again, and Virgil kissed her hair. “You’re going to stay with Dr. Stein for tonight, dove. It’s alright.” Clara made a noise, unsure of what that meant, but curled up in the blankets as soon as Virgil pulled up the covers. After a cough into his hand, Virgil crept back to the doorway, his hands folded together as he bowed to Logan. “ _Thank you_. I will _never_ ask for another favor _ever_ again.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course. Never again, I’m sure.”

And then Virgil was gone, off to his (and Patton’s) room for the night. Logan tried to lay down and sleep, but Clara snored and she kicked in her sleep. After a few hours, Logan resigned himself to sitting on the small balcony outside his window. It overlooked the dark ocean and was lit only by the faint, flickering oil lamp he brought with him. He had a book in his hand. A book of poems by Roman Kingsley.

Many of them (the poems) spoke of Love. Or Light. Or Desire. But all of it was tasteful and poetic in a way that Logan didn’t quite understand. Throughout that night, Logan read over Roman’s poems, finding himself wanting to hear them read aloud. It wouldn’t be the same coming from him. How would _Roman_ say it? What would he emphasize?

Before he knew it, the sun was breaking over the horizon. He sighed and closed the book. He’d read out of order… but it most likely didn’t matter. When he pivoted, he saw that Clara had turned over so much in her sleep, she was tangled in a small cluster of blankets. He sighed and went looking for his pipe, exiling himself to the balcony once more to smoke as the sun rose.

When Virgil stepped out onto the balcony, he looked _far_ too pleased with himself. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, a little smug as he said, “ _Lovely_ morning, ain’t it?”

Logan rolled his eyes and puffed a bit before he said, “It’s a morning just like any other.”

“It was a good night,” Virgil said through that smug smile. Again, Logan rolled his eyes. Virgil rolled his shoulders back and sighed, “ _Damn_ good night.” Logan ignored him, but Virgil went on. “Sleep well?”

Logan finally glanced at him and grumbled, “Clara kicks in her sleep.”

Virgil laughed a little, looking back into the room to see Clara in her nest of blankets. “ _Yes_ , I forgot about that… thank you, by the way. For letting her sleep in here.”

Logan looked at him and arched a single eyebrow. “Did _you_ sleep well?” Virgil smiled cheekily, and Logan huffed. “You are a deviant.”

Virgil snorted and nudged Logan’s shoulder. “What do you expect me to do? _Marry_ him first? Men can’t marry men, Logan.”

Logan glared at him. “No, but you could be more discreet.”

Virgil’s smile started to fall. “How much more discreet can we get? We’re out here, at the sea, with _no one else_ around this house. The only thing that could’ve heard me pleasuring Patton would be the _rats_ and you want me to be _more discreet?”_

Logan sputtered and coughed, choking on a lungful of smoke before he composed himself and said, “I wasn’t— it’s not that—” he paused, sighed, and stood so he could touch Virgil’s arm. “I don’t want you to be _caught_ in this, Virgil. You’re my friend and I’d rather not see you in jail.”

Virgil looked at him… and softened. “I’m not afraid of the consequences, Logan. I’m in love _despite_ them.”

That struck a chord in Logan, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Loving despite the fear. Despite the inherent dangers. Virgil was an anxious man, very much _aware_ of the distance between himself and the upper-class… and yet, there he was. In love and _loving_ with reckless abandon. But there was that glimmer of fear in his eyes. The shine that said he _knew_ that he wouldn’t be able to get away with it forever. He was scared but he was still there.

Logan took a breath. “How did you become courageous?”

Virgil took a deep breath through his nose and pursed his lips. “Honestly? He kissed me and I couldn’t let go.” Logan smiled and took a drag from his pipe. Before he could let the smoke out of his lungs, Virgil took it and puffed a bit. They let the smoke out in the cool, morning air, watching the sun come up together. “I just wanted to check on Clara. I’ll take her back in a minute.”

“In a minute,” Logan nodded.

They didn’t move. It was one of those rare moments they had free and able to spend together. A moment where Virgil wasn’t scrambling to be a Father and Patton wasn’t in the center of his attention. They stood and watched the sun come up, free of burden or fear… and they’d take advantage of it. They were allowed the luxury of a rich man for a few days.

They would enjoy it while they could.

When Logan descended the stairs later that morning, he was alarmed to see Remus at the foot of the stairs with Clara in his arms.

It wasn’t the fact he was holding _Clara_ that was startling; it was the fact that he was entirely mustacheless. He and Roman were nearly identical, and the only reason Logan knew it was _Remus_ was the shock of white at the part of his hair. If he and Roman wore the same vests (and Remus put a bit of shoe polish in his hair to cover the white patch), it would be impossible to tell them apart. As if to cement this, Clara looked between Remus and Roman, her eyes wide as she smiled and giggled.

“Two Remuses!” She said as she looked between them. Roman made a disgruntled face, clearly displeased with this information, and Remus cackled.

“Yes! I’m the first, and he’s the _second_ Remus.”

Roman baulked. “Why do _I_ have to be the second Remus? If anything _, you_ are the second Roman!”

Clara made a face. “Can it be both?”

Both brothers grumbled at the same time: _“No.”_

Clara lost interest in the twins and wiggled to be let down. Remus set her down and she was dashing for Patton, eagerly pulling him out the door to the beach again. While Logan skirted around the bottom of the stairs, Roman and Remus continued to bicker. 

“ _Second Remus…_ are you blind? Obviously, you’re the second Roman. Your white hair is a show of defect.”

“I get the white hair from Father, you prick!” Remus crossed his arms over his chest. “Plus, I’m clearly the more handsome of us. That, my dear brother, is a show of _your_ defect.”

Roman’s eyes went wide. “Do you _dare_ besmirch me and my handsome face?”

Remus grinned and it looked odd to see it without the mustache. It looked like _Roman’s_ smile… but wilder. “I besmirch you and your _honor_ , little brother.”

Roman gasped melodramatically and turned to Logan. “Do you have a glove?”

Logan blinked. “Pardon?”

“A _glove,_ Doctor.”

Fidgeting, Logan reached into his pocket and found a handkerchief. He handed it to Roman. “This is all I have.”

Roman looked at the handkerchief and nodded officially. “It’ll do.” Then, he looked at Remus and whacked him across the face with the kerchief. Remus wheezed a laugh, and Roman barely contained his own laughter as he shouted, “I demand satisfaction!”

Remus growled, “And you will have it! Come at me, _inferior_ Kingsley!”

Logan braced himself; was this going to be an actual duel? Or were they just being _brothers_? Because Logan had been an angry child. He was ready to shoot someone if they insulted his mother. This, however, was different. The Kingsley brothers smiled and shoved at each other on their way out the door. Logan followed, eager to know if he’d have to administer first-aid.

He wasn’t sure if he was irritated or relieved when the brothers chased each other to the beach. Grown men were running after each other shouting vaguely-Shakespearean insults as they went. Logan was slow to follow, more than happy to walk while the brothers pushed each other and knocked each other into the sand. Closer to the shore, Clara was toddling along the edge of the water, holding up the edge of her dress so it didn’t get wet. When she saw the Kingsley brothers coming, she bounced and cheered as they tumbled toward the water.

When Logan reached the sand, he crossed his arms over his chest and planted himself in place. Roman removed his vest and left it on the ground along with his shirt and shoes. Logan picked them up, watching as Remus charged into the water fully dressed. They stood there in the water, the waves sloshing around their knees as they glared at one another.

Logan was startled when Dee came to stand next to him, calling to the brothers, “Is this a duel?”

Remus shouted back: “A fight to the death!”

Logan highly doubted that. But Dee nodded, as if this were a reasonable thing. “On my mark! Ready!” The brothers brought up their fists like they were about to box. Logan narrowed his eyes. “Set!” The tension was thick, but Logan could still see them _smiling._ “Go!”

They grabbed at each other, struggled for a second, but it came to a spectacular end when Remus put a hand on the side of Roman’s head and tipped him down into the water. He went under with a large splash, leaving Remus standing, victorious. He laughed loudly, as if he’d won a great battle, only to have Roman sweep his feet out from beneath him, sending him flailing back into the water. Roman stood up in the water, stumbling a bit as he spat out salt water and choked on laughter. The rest of this “duel” consisted of the brothers kicking and splashing water at one another with loud, laughing “En guarde!” as they went.

Logan glanced at Dee. His expression was passive… if not for the quirk at the corner of his lips. It was almost like he was amused, but not daring to show it. Then, without reason, Dee spoke.

“Roman is fond of you, Dr. Stein.”

Logan twitched, eager to extract himself from the conversation and be _anywhere_ else. He stayed, though. No one could walk away from a powerful man like Mr. Dee. So he stood with Roman’s shirt and vest over his arm. “He says he enjoys my company. Which I find difficult to believe.”

Dee looked at him and spoke in a sharp, deceitful tone that was sweet to the ear. “But you seem so _personable_ , Dr. Stein. I’d assume you to be _everyone’s_ favorite physician.”

Logan forced a polite laugh out of his lungs. “How kind of you, Mr. Dee.”

For a long while, they watched the water. Roman was thrown back under, and Remus immediately followed, a shrill shriek as Roman grabbed him and dragged him under. Dee took a sharp breath, his feet digging into the sand as he turned to look at Logan head-on. “Dr. Stein, I think you should know something.”

Logan glanced at him, unwilling to give Dee the satisfaction of being feared. He looked at the water again. Remus was stumbling through the shallows, laughing as his wet trousers weighed him down. Roman was hoisting Clara into his arms, walking her through the water while Patton and Virgil watched him carefully. Dee stared at him, and Logan ignored it.

“You should know,” Dee said sternly, “That the Kingsley’s are a very important family to me. Roman is veritably my brother-in-law.”

Logan frowned. “I fail to see how that could be _possible—_ ”

“Don’t interrupt me.” Dee left no room for argument, and Logan looked at him, seeing that steely glint in his eye as he said, “You are a man of little means. I can see why anyone would seek the favor of a man like Roman… he has everything to gain with his inheritance.” Logan opened his mouth to reject the assumption, but Dee continued and cut him off. “I know who you are. I know where you came from. I know everything about you and everyone you interact with. Were you any amount of suspicious, you wouldn’t _be here_ today. Do you understand?”

Logan stared at him. “I don’t _seek_ anything from Roman, Mr. Dee. I’m a doctor. I’m here for his benefit. Nothing more.”

“Of course you are,” Dee said with his dark, poisonous smile. Logan didn’t turn away from him, not daring to take his eyes off him for more than a moment. Dee didn’t even reach out to touch him, but Logan felt like he was being held in place as Dee said, “But if you hurt him, in _any_ way… I can bet that no one, _ever,_ will find your body.”

Feeling his blood run a bit cold, Logan struggled to keep his expression unbothered as he replied. “Is that a threat, Mr. Dee?”

Dee smiled, and it didn’t go any higher than his cheekbones. His eyes looked into Logan’s eyes and it was nearly enough to make Logan stumble back. But he didn’t. He stood firm, not daring to flinch when Dee said, “That, my good doctor, is a _promise_.”

Then, Dee stepped back, wandering further down the coast and following Remus as he slowly dragged his feet through the water. It left Logan on his own with the threat of death hanging over him. It wasn’t as if he had been actively plotting against Roman Kingsley. He didn’t want money or power… but Logan did indeed _feel_ something for Roman. He could deny it all he liked, but it was fact. Repression only worked until certain limits were met, and Logan was teetering on the precipice of doing something that was potentially _very_ dangerous.

It was true that Roman had looked at him with eyes that were reserved for courting couples… but was that Roman’s expression of adoration? Or was it just Logan’s wishful thinking? It could be both. It could be neither. It could be Roman’s way of expressing his flowery, artistic opinion. This was a horrible way of deterring emotion, but it was all Logan had. One false step, and Logan would fall into Roman Kingsley, completely unable to tear himself away.

So he sat on the dry sand, watching the way Roman held Clara to his hip. Every now and then, they would reach down into the water, pick up a stone, and inspect it together. Roman spoke to her with a smile, and Clara looked completely content to be carried through the waves. She was happy. Logan almost envied her, out there, with Roman. _Almost_.

After a half an hour, Roman trudged out of the water and set Clara on the sand. She immediately went to where Patton and Virgil had sat down on the grass beyond the beach, leaning into one another and going a little hazy in the distance. Roman didn’t head for the house. In fact, he went straight to Logan, his steps getting heavier and his smile getting more and more tired as he approached. Logan tried not to stare at Roman’s broad shoulders and bare chest.

When he was close enough, Roman collapsed onto his knees next to Logan, crawling a little closer as he breathed heavily and sighed, “I’m _done_.” Logan handed him his shirt and vest, and Roman balled them up into a makeshift pillow, laying his head down with another sigh. “I’d forgotten how much I liked playing in the sea.”

“You’ll catch your death with the cold,” Logan said stuffily, his eyes on the gray-cloud horizon. Roman chuckled next to him.

“I needed to make a good memory,” Roman said gently, his smiling shining through his words. His eyes opened and he stared at Logan’s thigh. “So I don’t fear it anymore. So I don’t have to be angry anymore.”

“You were angry with the sea?”

Roman blinked and looked at him. “You know I wasn’t; don’t play dumb, Doctor. It doesn’t suit you.”

Logan hummed and eyed Virgil and Patton out in the grass. Clara had joined them, hugging herself to Patton as Virgil and Patton spoke to her… or maybe each other. Logan sighed, and Roman watched him.

“Are you _lonely_ , Dr. Stein?”

“Not really,” Logan murmured, the words coming out of his mouth unchecked. “Perhaps I’m envious.”

Roman turned over, lying on his back and staring up at the sky. “Of family life? Are you eager to be wed? To have a wife and a child?” Logan made a face, but Roman didn’t see it. “I’m sure you’d like a son. You’d be a strict father.”

“Children need structure,” Logan admitted, “But no, I’m not so eager for domesticity. I think I miss Virgil’s company. We’ve been close friends for so long... it’s odd not to see him as often.”

Roman was quiet for a moment, then, he sat up and took his balled-up vest and placed it on Logan’s thigh. Logan held still, watching as Roman scooted over and laid his head down on Logan’s thigh. There, he closed his eyes and murmured, “I can keep you company. If you’d have me.”

Logan didn’t move away. He took Roman’s shirt and draped it over Roman’s exposed skin like a blanket, and Roman chuckled fondly. It made something spark in Logan’s chest, and despite all effort to ignore it, he couldn’t. It reminded him of the light in Virgil’s eyes; the fear of being caught and the inherent dangers of being _loved_. It glowed in him, real and fragile, and Logan didn’t have the heart to crush it. So Logan leaned back and braced his hands on the sand, staring up at the oncoming storm with a thoughtful expression as he said, “I’d be delighted at your company, Mr. Kingsley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the summer holiday begins. All those memories in that house... hopefully, they can make some happy memories to go with it. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes. Come by to say hi or ask questions or just let meknow if you like the fic!


	9. Respite and Rain

“On the third day, it rained.” Remus’s words were punctuated with a clap of thunder, and the old wiring in the house flickered nervously. Thomas looked at him, seeing the ominous shadows thrown over his face as he leaned forward against the table and smiled. 

Around him were a myriad of other ghosts; Dee was writing something, Patton was admiring the preserved letters under the glass, and Virgil was slumped in his chair like death was a chore and he was too tired to pursue accurate haunting techniques. Patton looked up when the thunder snapped once more, going to Virgil and sitting with him when Virgil twitched and became uneasy. There was a story there, but Thomas wasn’t sure what it was.

“Focus, Thomas!” Remus snapped his fingers impatiently. “Pay attention. The folly of man repeats itself often, but this tale will be told only once!”

Thomas made a face. “I’m pretty sure if it’s written down, it can be told multiple times.”

Dee snorted at that, earning a kick under the table that made him laugh in earnest. The pen in his hand was set down and whatever he’d been writing (in a journal that Thomas procured for him) was momentarily forgotten. “Forgive me, my dear… but perhaps your melodrama is misplaced.”

“It’s _always_ misplaced. Read the room, git.” Virgil sank in his chair a bit further and Patton patted his hand. The rain outside fell in steady sheets, and Virgil’s mood didn’t seem to improve.

Remus ignored this and went back to his narration. “It was a cool summer evening with the rain rolling off the seas… the mist made the border between land and sky disappear, and for a brief while, we were _all_ suspended in purgatory…”

Dee went back to his writing and hummed. “This is a fascinating segue into a story about how Roman scolded you.”

“What? He did _not.”_ Remus gasped, clearly offended.

Virgil perked up. “Oi… isn’t that the night that you insulted Logan?”

Again, Remus gasped dramatically. “The table is conspiring against me. Thomas! Call a medium and have these naysayers expelled from the house!”

Thomas pursed his lips. “Wouldn’t that just expel you, too?”

“Even the boy is against me.” Remus slumped in his seat. “This is a mutiny. A _mutiny._ In my own house!”

 _“My_ house,” Dee corrected as he continued to write. Again, Remus kicked him, and he smiled wryly. Thunder clapped and Virgil jumped in his seat… Patton touched his arm, soothing him, and Dee watched carefully. After Virgil relaxed, he said, “Remus. Tell your story. A distraction will help the table.”

Virgil glanced at him uneasily, but Dee has already returned to his writing, ignoring the meaningful looks being thrown at him. Remus took the invitation though, leaning forward and folding his hands together under his chin.

“The night came early with the rain, blotting out the sunlight and casting us in an inky-black world.” Thomas started to write, and Remus smiled knowingly. “In the parlor, the good doctor and Roman were playing a friendly game…”

+++++

While Clara played hide-and-seek with Virgil, Patton, and Remus, Logan and Roman had taken to playing chess while the rain fell. It came down hard and fast, leaving the beach looking hazy and vague where the land reached out and met the sea. There wasn’t thunder; it was more of a tired, sleeping rain. The kind that made the roof tiles shift and soak through to the wood beneath. The grandfather clock tic-toked in the corner, lost only under the crackle of a fire in the brick-lined fireplace. The light was low, and Logan was, dare he say it, _happy_ to be there.

Roman was a little uneasy where he sat. Having lost several games, he was jumpy and agitated, fighting to regain his honor. Logan didn’t mind. Playing chess for several hours was easy entertainment. He liked puzzles and strategy… and he was winning. _Everyone_ likes winning. Don’t you?

“Ha!” Roman said as he moved his rook. “I have you now.”

Logan glanced at the board. Roman had left his queen entirely exposed. A plan? Maybe. Logan weighed the consequences of sacrificing a pawn. He would lose little ground if he did. Roman was excitable enough not to see a trap. The corners of Logan’s lips turned up in a smile as he took a pawn and carefully moved toward the queen.

“We’ll see, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman puffed up like a flustered bird. “I can still win, you know.” He captured Logan’s pawn. “I’m not an idiot.”

“No,” Logan agreed calmly. His knight captured the queen and Roman gaped at the board, thoroughly flummoxed. Logan twirled the queen in his fingers with a satisfied smile. “But being smart doesn’t mean you have an affinity for chess.”

“You’re an ass,” Roman growled. Logan chuckled, and Roman glanced up at him with the smile. “Oh, so you _can_ laugh…” Logan shifted and looked away. Roman chased him with, “Good god, laugh again. It sounds heavenly; just hearing the joy in your voice is—”

“It’s your move, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Dodge me all you like, Dr. Stein.” He advanced on Logan’s knight. An opening to his king was made. Roman didn’t notice. “I think I can best you, yet.”

“Flowery words won’t win you the game, you know.”

Roman scoffed. “They’re only _flowery_ if they’re covering a lie. When I compliment you, my dear man, it’s in perfect honesty.”

Logan slid over his knight. “Check.”

“Furthermore,” Roman fluttered his fingers over his pieces, unaware of what he wanted to do next. “I could stop saying those things, should they make you uncomfortable.”

Logan looked at him. “You’d stop.”

Roman captured Logan’s knight and cradled it in his palm. “Do you want me to, Doctor?”

Looking at the board, Logan set his queen on Roman’s king. “Check.”

“Damn!” Roman was effectively distracted. He fluttered his hands again, eager to find an escape. Unfortunately, the distraction didn’t go far. A rook advanced on Logan’s queen and she was captured. “If my words upset you, you can tell me, you know. As friends, you can tell me anything you like.”

Logan exchanged one of Roman’s pawns for his own. Once again, he said, “Check.”

Now Roman was frustrated. He bounced his leg, a hand going through his hair as he said, “You are _very_ efficient when it comes to dodging the question.”

“I didn’t hear a question, Mr. Kingsley.”

After angrily swapping Logan’s pawn for his last rook, Roman looked at him. “You know that I think you’re an incredible man, Dr. Stein. I find you remarkable in every way. Your eyes captivate me. Your words strike my soul.” Logan felt uneasy. No one had ever been so blunt with him before. Roman was looking at him with such conviction and Logan couldn’t look away. “But if you say the word, I can keep these thoughts to myself.” A pause... then, “Would you like me to?”

Logan swallowed, looking down at the board, and seized Roman’s king. “Checkmate.”

Roman blinked and stared down at the board. Then, with a growl, he threw himself back against his chair. “ _How?_ I thought I _had_ you this time… _how?”_

“Strategy,” Logan said numbly, his heart coming down from a metaphorical high. He looked out the window, seeing the rain still pouring. He sighed. “I see the match is mine… another round?”

Roman opened his mouth to no doubt accept, only to be interrupted by Remus. “I’ll take that offer!”

Roman frowned. “He was asking _me,_ Remus. Shouldn’t you be hiding in a boudoir?”

Remus ignored him as he crossed the room and marched toward the board. “As much as I like jumping out of boxes and scaring people, I seek a _challenge._ ” He looked at Logan and grinned. His smile seemed more maniacal without the mustache. Then Remus patted Roman’s shoulder sympathetically. “Besides… I can only imagine how many games you’ve lost. Who else will defend your honor?”

Roman rolled his eyes and stood from his chair — Remus immediately fell into it — and Logan reset the board. While he did this, Roman went to the drink cart and poured himself some sherry. “Dr. Stein is smart, Remus. He won’t let you win like Andréa does.”

Remus snorted. “Dee doesn’t _let_ me win. He’s never gotten to win because I distract him as soon as defeat is imminent.”

Logan glanced and him and before he could stop himself, he said, “That seems a shallow course of action, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Oh, my.” Remus didn’t lose his smile. “Twitchy at the idea of _losing,_ Doctor?”

At the drink cart, Roman bubbled and glowered. “If you win the way you win with Andréa, I swear—”

“Re _lax_ , little brother. I won’t steal your doctor from you.” Remus looked at the board, smiled, and gestured for Logan to go on. “The first move is yours. What an elegant turn of events.”

Logan grimaced; what did _that_ mean? He moved a pawn. As soon as he did, Remus moved a pawn. Logan glanced at him. Remus was smiling, grinning at him like a diabolical genius as he moved his pieces without thought or care. Logan thought before each move. He considered losses and gains. Remus… Remus moved with reckless abandon. He was worse than Roman.

Remus continued to follow each of Logan’s moves with a split-second move of his own, almost like he was eager to lose and end the game. However, it was making Logan nervous. He felt rushed. He moved a pawn… and Remus captured it. How did he capture it? Logan hadn’t seen him coming. But Remus smiled at him, dark and triumphant, as Logan tried to weigh his next choice.

“You know what I think, Dr. Stein?” Remus asked coyly. Logan glanced at him, and that smile looked misplaced on a face _just like Roman’s._ It was mean, and Logan wasn’t sure what to do about that. Remus went on without prompting, “I think you’re a coward.”

Logan straightened in his chair, moved a knight, and watched as Remus captured it without pause. Logan frowned and looked up at him. The smile stayed. “Should I take this as an insult to my character?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no… just a weakness.” Remus moved a pawn. Logan swapped it with his rook, but Remus didn’t seem moved. “You know what you _want,_ Dr. Stein. It’s just frustrating watching you hem and haw until you make a choice.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea to what you’re referring.”

Remus slammed his knight down on the board with a forceful _snap._ _“Yes_ , you _do_. You’re just being obtuse.”

Logan took his knight. Remus didn’t care. “I don’t _want_ anything, Mr. Kingsley. I live a fine life. Most people would be content to want for nothing.”

“But is that enough?”

“It is.”

“Liar,” Remus said as he made an aggressive advance across the board. Logan was losing ground, unable to focus and make a rational decision as Remus pressured him. “I know a lie when I hear one. I’m _married_ to a professional liar.”

Logan blinked. What was he talking about? “I didn’t know you were married.”

“Does that matter right now?” Remus stole another pawn. Their numbers were dwindling, and they looked scared while Logan was failing to help them. He moved a rook. Remus took it. “You have something _wonderful_ right in front of you. Practically _begging_ for your attention. And what do you do?”

Roman took a warning step toward the board. “Remus.”

“You ignore it!” Remus continued as if Roman hadn’t spoken. Logan said nothing in his defense. He had no idea what brought this on or what Remus was talking about… Logan knew he was a coward, but why was _Remus_ calling him on it? He tried to escape a pursuing knight. He was captured. Remus went on. “A coward in love is a coward in life. Are you insulted, Mr. Stein?”

 _“Dr._ Stein _,”_ Logan snapped. “I am a _doctor.”_

“But a coward nonetheless.”

Roman put a hand on Remus’s chair and repeated, “ _Remus._ ”

“What?” Remus shrugged irritably. “He’s being dense _on purpose._ What does it take for a man to make a leap of faith?” He looked at Logan and his eyes — _Roman’s_ eyes — shone bright in the firelight. “What does it take for a coward to become courageous?”

Logan fought to remain in his chair and not throw the board into Remus’s face. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Kingsley. I don’t want anything. That doesn’t make me cowardly.”

Remus cooed softly. “Oh… so you’re a _repressed_ coward.”

While Logan’s face burned (why did he turn red? Why was he embarrassed?) Roman gripped Remus’s shoulder and growled, “ _Remus_. That is _enough._ ”

Finally, Remus stopped. He leaned back in his chair, giving Roman an indulging look. Roman wasn’t pleased. His knuckles were white where he gripped his glass of sherry. Logan looked away. A coward? Repressed? He’d never been called those things before. Remus had to be wrong. He _had_ to be. Logan didn’t want anything. He looked at Roman.

He didn’t want... Anything.

After a long minute of silence that was filled with the routine _snik-snok_ of the grandfather clock and popping firewood, Remus finally slid his gaze back to Logan. He didn’t apologize. Even if he did, Logan would know it wasn’t true. There wasn’t a hint of remorse in his eyes as he leaned forward, took his knight, and slid it across the board. Finally, he smiled that dark, angry smile with Roman’s face.

 _“Checkmate._ ”

Logan said nothing. His chest felt tight with anger and frustration… but he was a gentleman. He wasn’t going to punch Remus Kingsley over a petty remark. Even if he really, _really_ wanted to.

He wasn’t bothered in the slightest when Remus stood and left the room. Roman berated him as he left, calling him a few colorful names as he retreated. Logan looked at the board. At an easy, easy defeat. Fighting Remus hadn’t worked. He should’ve run. To try to escape and regroup. Remus was unpredictable, though. There was no rhyme or reason to what he did. It was infuriating.

It made Logan think of Roman. It made a strange, sickly _longing_ build up under his ribcage. Remus was rude and wild… Roman was insistent but respectful. Remus spoke as if he _needed_ the last word while Roman always tried to hear Logan speak. They were so similar, mirror images of a face… but complete opposites. And yet, artistic and creative in the same vein. It was maddening. It was intoxicating. 

Logan knew he was a lost cause. He knew that Remus was right. He just didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to acknowledge that he had fallen so ridiculously for someone. So, he indulged in Roman’s flowery words and compliments. He rode on the coattails of romantic poetry, quiet and happy to take what was given to him without uttering a single word. Logan sank where he sat. Remus was right.

He was a coward.

“I’m sorry,” Roman said with an uneasy chuckle. He came back to the board. Then he set his glass on the table gently, his eyes fighting to catch Logan’s as he sat down. “Remus is…” he waved a hand loosely. “A bit much.”

“It’s alright,” Logan muttered. “He didn’t get to me. Not really.”

Roman looked at him for a long time, a tense worried expression on his face. “But you look so _sad_ , dear man… we could play another game, if you like? You were in such good spirits before.”

Logan stood and Roman stood with him, a startled look in his eyes. “I think I’ll retire for the night.”

“Oh. Oh, he’s frightened you off, hasn’t he? I’m sorry.” Roman stepped close, a hand on Logan’s wrist as he said, “I’m _sorry,_ my dear… don’t leave. We can talk about other things. Anything you like! It’s too early to turn in.”

Logan looked at Roman and saw the stardust in his eyes. He saw the hesitant smile on his lips, like he was on the precipice of relief. Logan took the hand on his wrist and gently removed it.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Logan said gently. “I think I’d rather sleep. Goodnight, Mr. Kingsley.”

He stepped out of the parlor, leaving Roman standing with a tense expression. Outside, the rain still fell in sheets. The fire crackled. The door clicked shut, and Roman didn’t wish him pleasant dreams. And even if he had, Logan didn’t hear it.

+++++

Thunder cracked like a whip through the air, and Thomas jumped as the lights flickered, _popped_ , and finally went out. The dining room was silent. Pulling out his phone, Thomas turned on the flashlight and scanned the room.

It was empty.

With a sigh, he picked up his glowing laptop and made the slow trek back to his room. The old wiring was par for the course… after the house had been donated in the late 1870’s, newer electric lights were brought in… and hadn’t been replaced since. Maybe, if the house was opened to tourists instead of being watched by irritated historians, the wires would be replaced, and the house wouldn’t have to live in the dark. _Maybe._

When he made it to the stairs, he stopped; Virgil was on the bottom step, curled into himself as he glared at the floor. Thomas hesitated; did he need to talk? Did he need a _hug?_ He hovered uselessly, the ring of light from his phone almost shining through Virgil.

“Hey,” Thomas said uselessly. “Are you… uh…” how would one politely ask a dead man if he was okay?

“Historians don’t care ‘bout the little people, right?”

Thomas blinked, fidgeting a little with his phone before he said, “Well. I mean. Normal people aren’t normally so well documented. People like Dee and Remus were big players in politics and art. You and Patton—”

“We’re the ones in the wings. I get it.” Virgil sat for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face. Outside, lightning flickered, and thunder rumbled immediately after. Virgil twitched and leaned his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands as he sighed. “I hate stormy nights.”

Carefully, Thomas sat on the creaky step next to Virgil. His laptop had enough glow to highlight them both as Virgil scrubbed his hands over his face and slouched with a passion. Thomas reached out… and touched his shoulder.

It was like feeling at fabric. There was resistance… but very little of it. When Patton had woken Thomas those few short days ago, he’d felt real and solid. Virgil was only halfway there. Maybe because of the storm. Maybe because he was upset. He wasn’t sure. Either way, Virgil sat up and looked at him with troubled gray eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Virgil blinked slowly, his hands worrying in his lap as he thought. “I died on a stormy night like this.”

“Oh,” Thomas said, because he had no idea how to respond to that. “I’m sorry,” he added, because _how do you respond to that?_

Virgil sighed and leaned his elbows on his knees. “You couldn’t have known. Historians don’t look at the ‘little people of the city,’ especially not an engraver like me.”

Thomas nodded sympathetically, but there was a bubbling guilt low in his stomach. Before Remus had started telling his stories, he had no idea that a “Virgil Lent” has ever existed. Distantly, he knew that it wasn’t exactly his fault. He had started studying the Kingsley brothers. He couldn’t be blamed for not knowing Virgil. Still… that study had brought him from America to England, and now he was highly aware of these new players in the story.

Virgil sat up a bit when lightning flashed again. He tensed, bracing himself, but still jumped when thunder cracked like a whip through the air. Thomas reached out again, giving Virgil’s shoulder a careful pat, and Virgil smiled a bit. “You know, I don’t know why it bothers me. I was hardly awake that night.”

“Storms can be loud.”

Virgil’s eyes went distant and his smile turned melancholy. “I don’t think it was me… I think… I think it might’ve been Clara. She used to jump and giggle with thunder was loud. I remember... she was at my bedside. She…” he paused, thought, and said, “I think she held my hand. She was only fourteen at the time. I wanted to tell her it was alright. That I’d be fine. Patton told me to save my strength when I tried to talk. I could hardly breathe.” He chuckled to himself, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “I wanted to tell them I loved them. I closed my eyes for a second. Just… just a _second_ …”

Thunder cracked again, and Virgil didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

“Virgil!” Patton gasped. Thomas pivoted, seeing Patton at the top of the stairs. He rushed down, scooting between Virgil and Thomas so he could get to the ground floor. There, he knelt in front of Virgil and held his hands in his own. “I thought I’d lost you again.”

Virgil smiled uneasily. “I’m here.”

“Well, don’t stray far. I want to be here if you’re upset. You looked so frazzled when it started to rain…”

Virgil softened. “I love you.”

“Oh,” Patton blinked, looked at Thomas, and chuckled a bit. He looked embarrassed. “Well, I… I love you, too, dear. Very much. But…” he glanced at Thomas again, and Thomas shrugged.

“People saying ‘I love you’ in public isn’t a big deal. Not even when it’s two men. Not to me, anyway.”

Still, Patton’s smile was shy as he pat Virgil’s hands. “It’s late. We can go?”

Thomas perked up at that. “Where do you guys go at the end of the night? Remus and Dee never told me.”

Patton made a thoughtful face. “Where… well, it’s not that we leave. It’s that… things get a bit distant. It’s like going to sleep for a while.”

“You sleep?” Thomas asked, and Virgil gave an amused huff.

“Of course we sleep. What do you think I did while I was waiting for Patton?”

With a sigh, Thomas stood and balanced his open laptop in the crook of his arm. Carefully, he climbed the stairs with two ghosts following behind at a leisurely pace. Once he made it to his room, he set his laptop on his desk and sat down. Lightning flashed in the window and Virgil froze in the doorway. Thunder followed, but Patton’s arm in his kept him tethered to reality, and he let out a breath. Thomas looked at him. 

“You know, earlier, you said you knew about Remus insulting Logan.”

“‘Course I did,” Virgil said calmly. He led Patton to the bed and sat down with him. “He came straight to us after the whole thing.” Thomas pivoted, put his hands on the keys, and Virgil sighed. “Oh, no… I’m telling the story again?”

“I can tell it,” Patton said softly, “It was just before we put Clara to bed. She was all warm and cozy in her nightgown when Logan knocked on our bedroom door.”

+++++

Virgil was negotiating with a six-year-old child. It wasn’t elegant, nor was it necessary… but sill. He negotiated. She stood on the bed, still too short to be at eye-level, with her little hands patting Virgil’s open palms as he held out his hands.

“Five minutes,” she said.

“Bedtime,” he replied. A pause, and then Clara leaned her hands into his.

“Just five minutes?”

 _"Bedtime._ ”

“Five—”

“Clara.” In the armchair, Patton giggled and looked up from his book, eyeing Clara and Virgil from across the room. Virgil was breaking and Patton knew it. Still, Virgil tried to be firm. “It’s bedtime, dove. Lay down.”

Clara lifted her arms, her eyes big and wide as she made little grabbing hands at him. Virgil groaned and stepped back. He looked at Patton hopelessly. “Love… help.”

With another laugh, Patton set aside his book and stood. “Come here, little duck. I’ll hold you for _five minutes_ … and then bedtime.”

Virgil glowered as Patton took Clara into his arms. “Oh, of _course_ you pick her up. Now I’m the villain.”

Patton looked at him, reached over, and hooked a finger over Virgil’s collar. There, he tugged Virgil down for a kiss, holding him there for a moment as he said, “You’re hardly a villain.”

Against Patton’s opposite shoulder, Clara giggled. Virgil gave him a sly smile and murmured, “Not yet I’m not.”

Patton flushed and stepped away. “ _Virgil,”_ he said, with so much flustered affection it was nearly painful. Virgil almost chased him, ready to wrap his arms around him and Clara and kiss until both of them laughed like loons…

But someone knocked on the door.

He hummed, coughed into his hand a bit, and then went to answer it. It wasn’t the maid — she had started bringing warm milk for Clara each night to help her sleep — it was Logan.

Now, it’s clear _why_ Logan was there at Virgil’s door. His expression was grieved and bereft. You, dear reader, know exactly why. Virgil, however, did not. He gave Logan a long, hard look, and quirked an eyebrow.

“Lose a match of chess, did you?”

Logan’s depressed expression turned cold as he glared at Virgil. “I have _obviously_ come to the wrong person. Good night.”

Virgil laughed and grabbed Logan’s shoulder before he could get away. “Who else would you go to? Come back, come back… don’t be fussy.”

Patton took Clara to the armchair, cuddling her close as her eyelids drooped. Logan stepped into the room gingerly, his arms folded over his chest as he looked at the floor. Virgil coughed a bit… then sat on the corner of the bed.

“So… what—”

“Am I a coward?” Logan asked quickly, his deep, deep eyes glinting with anxious hope. Virgil blinked and remained straight-faced.

“Yes.” He said. Then, “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Logan stepped forward and said, “In what context?”

Virgil leaned back. “I don’t know! Damn, why are you so curious about it?”

“Virgil!” Patton hissed. Clara was asleep against his shoulder. Still, he said, _“Language.”_

Virgil frowned at Logan like _he_ was the one who got him in trouble. But Logan wasn’t amused. He didn’t even look swayed. He looked at Virgil with uncertainty in his eyes and Virgil wasn’t sure if he wanted to hug him or throttle him.

“What brought this on? What’s got you so out of sorts?”

Logan blinked, stepped back, and crossed his arms again. “Remus called me a coward.”

Patton frowned where he sat. “Remus says a lot of things. It’s not always best to take him seriously.”

Even as he said this, Logan started to pace. Short, clipped steps that would’ve driven Mother crazy. _“Sit down_ ,” she used to say when Logan paced up and down the floor. Virgil remembered sitting with her, admiring her fond smile as she scolded Logan. _“Breathe before your thoughts suffocate you.”_

“How can I be bold when there’s no guarantee it’ll pay off?” Logan asked no one in particular. Virgil glanced at Patton, and he was met with a helpless shrug. Logan went on. “And if I do take a ‘leap of faith,’ what then? If my faith is misplaced, then I’ve overstepped on a _grand_ scale and my reputation is ruined. If it isn’t… there’s no hope anyway because a man of my status—”

Virgil made a face. “Wait, wait… leap of faith? Ruined reputation? Logan, what are you on about?”

Logan looked at him. “I think before I act; is that a crime?”

“What? No, but—”

“If I _know_ what I want won’t ever be achievable, is it cowardly to abstain?”

 _“No,_ but what are you—”

“You said I’m a coward,” Logan said stiffly. “Why?”

Virgil stared at him for a long while, dumbfounded by this turn of events. In his chair, Patton watched the interaction with an uncomfortable expression. There was a long pause, then Virgil said, “You’re a coward. I’m a coward. Everyone in England is a coward. We hide our feelings, ball it all up and tuck them away until the devil comes to take us home.”

Logan fidgeted where he stood. “But—”

“You don’t _feel_ your feelings, Logan. You want to be brave? Bold? Face them.”

After a hint of hesitation, Logan glanced at Patton… and then back to Virgil. “I thought you said you were a coward.”

“I am,” Virgil nodded. Patton made a sad noise in the back of his throat, and Virgil gave him a calm smile. “And I’ve come to terms with it. The only time I need to be _bold_ is when it matters. With a _person_ who matters.” He looked at Patton. Patton smiled and kissed Clara’s hair, rocking her where he sat. Virgil looked back to Logan. “So. What is _your_ issue, Doctor?”

Logan grimaced. “That sounds accusatory.”

“Sounds like you’re dodging the question.”

Looking away, Logan pulled at his collar and sighed. “It’s a dangerous venture… being honest.”

“It is,” Virgil admitted. He’d never really seen Logan like this before. Well. He’d seen Logan anguishing over a decision, grinding his teeth over a difficult choice… but he’d never seen him like this, aching and fluttering over _emotion._

No… no, he had. He’d seen Logan broken and heartbroken over the loss of his mother. They had both grieved. They had been _angry_ for years. Angry at the world, at the unfairness of it all… Virgil and Logan poured themselves into their work. And after a long while of distance, they reached out with blind and broken hands, ready to heal and speak with each other again. Now, there they were, years later… going through a new, frightening phase in their lives. One of love… or maybe one of loss. Virgil had a family. Logan… Logan was standing on the precipice of having _something_. 

Virgil could see it plain as day; the way Roman sought out Logan on the beach, the way Logan watched him out in the water… they were helpless. They were also _hopeless._ Virgil almost wanted to lock them in a room with candles and rose petals on the floor and be done with it. But Logan was clearly struggling. He couldn’t force Logan to come to terms when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to _feel_ these things.

So, he folded his hands together, sighed, and said, “Logan. My friend. My brother. I love you. I do… but I also love _sleeping._ ”

Logan blinked, flushed a nice scarlet, and said, “Right. Right, of course. Good evening, Mr. Moore.”

Patton smiled and nodded politely. “Dr. Stein.”

Before Logan could reach for the door, there was a desperate, loud knocking. All three men paused, considering who it could be. Remus coming to tell Logan off again. Roman come to confess his love? Both options were interesting, but in the end, Logan moved first, opening the door to reveal Dee looking unnervingly concerned. His collar was crooked, and his shirt was rumpled… but that looked like the least of his worries.

“So _this_ is where you’ve been hiding,” he said, hardly making any attempt to explain himself. Logan raised an eyebrow; Dee was _looking_ for him? He opened his mouth to speak but Dee cut him off. “Doctor. Your assistance is needed. It’s Roman.”

+++++

Twenty minutes earlier, Dee had been blissfully preoccupied. He didn’t know _why_ Remus came back to their room in a restless huff, nor could he bring himself to care. Remus had shoved him down onto the bed and straddled him without question, leaning down to kiss him hard as he pulled at Dee’s collar.

It was hot and feverish like their first time in the gardens. Too much to do and far too few hands to _do it._ Dee swept his hands up and over Remus’s thighs, squeezing his hips and groaning in approval when Remus bit his lip. He could _feel_ Remus smiling, smug and satisfied when Dee shifted beneath him, eager for friction...

Then the door to the bedroom slammed open. Remus leaned back, rising on his knees to see who it was, and Dee was left gasping for _any_ kind of attention. It wasn’t given to him. Dee threw his head back with a growling shout, then turned his head to see Roman glaring at him as he approached the bed.

Still unhappy, he growled, “He _llo,_ Roman. Impeccable timing.”

Roman ignored him and pointed an angry, accusatory finger at Remus. “You. _You_ are the _scum_ of the earth!”

Remus sat back down, and Dee let out a startled, relieved moan. Both Kingsleys ignored it. “Me? Scum? How flattering. What did I do?”

Dee held Remus’s hips and leaned back against the pillows. “Good _god_ , don’t move.”

Roman went on without missing a beat. “You insulted him! Attacked his character! I thought we were getting closer and then _you_ swoop in and—”

“I didn’t insult him!”

 _“Yes!_ You _did!”_

Dee sighed. This wasn’t ending any time soon. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, _please_ , can you argue at a _different_ time?”

Both looked at him and shouted: “No!”

Dee blinked. “It’s startling to have two of the same face shouting at me.”

With a huff, Remus swung himself over the edge of the bed and crossed his arms, ready to argue. Dee sighed and sat up, redoing his collar as they began to fight in earnest.

“You come into _my_ room while I’m about to ravish _my_ husband—”

“You interrupted us, too, you know! You did it deliberately!”

Remus blinked. “You were about to ravish the doctor?”

“You— What?” Roman sputtered and stomped his foot. “No! No, I wasn’t! We were having a pleasant evening. Calm and companionable. And then _you_ waltzed in and started attacking him!”

“Did _not!”_ Remus was practically fuming, and if he had his mustache, it would’ve been twitching as his expression fidgeted.

Dee suddenly mourned the loss of that mustache. Remus was handsome no matter what he wore or how he grew his hair, but the tickle of the mustache was nearly second nature to their kisses. Of course, this was beside the point. Roman was clearly upset. Remus had done… _something,_ and now his brother was turning red with frustration.

Slowly swinging his legs over the bed, Dee let the argument go on a bit longer before stepping in.

“The man isn’t _oblivious,_ Roman! He needs to get his head out of the sand and _look around!”_

Roman growled and threw his hands into the air. “Just because _I_ love the doctor doesn’t mean he feels the same way!”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Oh, for god’s sake…”

“Stop! Stop treating me like I’m _ridiculous_ because you’re the married one! I may love the doctor but that doesn’t mean I can go around declaring it to the world. It might be unwelcome!”

Remus stepped forward, crowding Roman’s space as he growled, “If you think that’s what I was trying to accomplish you’re as daft as he is.”

Dee stood up. “Remus.”

“You’re blunt enough as it is. He’s an _idiot_ and he’s _ignoring_ it.” Dee’s warning went unheeded. Remus didn’t stop. “I called him a coward because he isn’t _saying_ what’s on his _mind—_ ”

“Enough!” Dee took Remus’s shoulders and pulled him back and away from Roman. Logan was obviously smitten with Roman… but he was still struggling. That wasn’t something _anyone_ could force. Remus looked at him, ready to wiggle away from him and continue shouting, but Dee held fast. “Enough. Remus, you obviously did something to upset your brother.”

“Upset,” Roman repeated coldly. “Upset! No, no, no. I’m not upset. I’m _livid!_ The doctor walked away looking for all intents like a man who was falling apart, and I know for a fact that it was because of you!”

Remus raised his eyebrows. Then his expression went dark and angry. “You think _I’m_ the reason he left? He left because of his own inability to _face reality—_ ”

“Shut! _Up!”_ Roman snapped, the words punctuated with a sharp, shuddering breath. He paused, clearly ready to say more, only to let out a deep, grating cough. “You—” he coughed again, unable to catch his breath. “You… just—” again, more coughing. He couldn’t finish his statement as he bent over, reaching for something, _anything,_ to hold him up. 

Remus’s shoulders lost their sharp, firm edge. He took Roman’s hand, holding him steady as Roman wheezed and choked on the next breath. 

When Roman was able, he looked up with his red face and wheezed, “I’m still angry with you.”

“I’m sure you are,” Remus nodded with a smile. The smile disappeared as Roman coughed again, each one sounding more painful than the last. Remus winced, helping him to the bed so he could sit. Without looking up, he said, “Dee. Get the doctor.”

Roman made a horrified face and shook his head, but when he coughed again, the protest was a moot point. Dee marched out of the room, ready to _drag_ the doctor to Roman if need be. Roman said that Logan had walked away from him. He’d probably gone to his room for the night. He went to the door, knocked… and received no answer. Dee frowned. He couldn’t be asleep. It wasn’t late enough to retire. He knocked again, this time slamming the side of his hand against the door. Again, no answer.

Dee turned to face the hall with a sour expression. If he was a doctor with a disposition for ignoring the advances of a handsome man, where would he go? Not to the dining room. It’s depressing when dining or drinking alone. Not outside. It was still raining. The last place he would go would be to Remus or Dee… so that left Mr. Moore and his engraver. It seemed unlikely that he would go to them to nurse his wounds. But Dee had done his research. He knew that Logan and Virgil had been childhood companions.

Maybe that would be enough to send Logan crawling to them for comfort. Dee had no other guesses, so it would have to do. He went to Patton’s room, knocked hard, and was pleasantly surprised to see Logan Stein answer the door.

“So _this_ is where you’ve been hiding,” he said bluntly. Logan raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. Dee didn’t have time for dallying. “Doctor. Your assistance is needed. It’s Roman.”

Logan followed him immediately, showing off his incredible decision-making skills by _not_ remaining in the doorway. Maybe he wasn’t as dense as Dee and Remus seemed to think.

“Let me get my bag,” Logan said on the way, ducking into his room to retrieve a doctor’s bag of goodies. Dee didn’t mind it. If the doctor was prepared, all the better. Then he was back in the hall and following Dee. “Is he feverish?” He asked anxiously, “Coughing? Vomiting?”

“He’s coughing, Doctor. He can’t catch his breath.”

Logan’s expression turned tortured as they approached the room and he hardly waited for Dee to open the door before he jumped into the room and sought out Roman. His eyes fell on the bed, saw Roman lying on the bed, and his expression turned cool and distant. Dee arched an eyebrow; he was maintaining distance? When he’d been so worried? It was a stark change.

Logan marched to the bed, gently pushed Remus aside, and took Roman’s wrists. Then, pulled him upright. Roman coughed hard, just to prove a point, but Logan didn’t let him lie down. Remus was glaring; he had that adorable pout on his face that said something _almost_ violent. But he didn’t fight the doctor… he just glowered like a semi-predatory gargoyle.

Logan held Roman’s wrist with one hand and reaching for his bag with the other. “Sitting up will help you breathe better.”

“This is ridiculous,” Roman croaked as he put on hand on Logan’s waistcoat. He held on like it was a lifeline… and Logan didn’t remove his hand. Dee arched a delicate eyebrow and stood by the wall calmly. _Interesting._ Roman spoke again and it was a little breathless but still clear. “I was upset with Remus. I was just _yelling,_ and I _coughed.”_

Logan unbuttoned Roman’s vest. “You have delicate lungs, Mr. Kingsley.”

Dee couldn’t smother a smile at their actions. Roman was completely at ease with the doctor removing his vest. Would he be as mellow if the doctor knelt between his legs and undid his belt? Dee had to repress a snicker as Remus slinked across the floor to stand with him.

 _“Look at them,”_ he hissed. He reached up to curl his mustache, remembered that he’d shaved it, and angrily tucked his hands under his arms. Dee reached behind him to give his butt a comforting pat, but Remus wasn’t swayed. “This is _ridiculous._ See the way he _looks_ at him?”

Dee hummed. The doctor looked at Roman like he was the only patient in the world worth caring for… and Roman looked up at Logan like he held the world in his eyes. Dee pursed his lips and lied calmly. “I don’t see it.” Remus elbowed him for good measure.

Logan finally got his stethoscope against Roman’s chest and he looked over Roman’s head when he said, “Deep breath, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman frowned and held his breath. “This isn’t necessary.” He coughed just once, then insisted, “I’m fine!”

Logan braced a hand on Roman’s shoulder, looked him in the eye, and repeated, “Deep breath, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman obeyed. This doctor had Roman wrapped around his finger, and the doctor didn’t even _know it._ Dee found this incredibly amusing, but Remus was practically foaming at the mouth.

“I can cut the sexual tension in the room with a butter knife. A _dull_ one. One that’s completely round.” 

“I’m not sure a _round_ knife exists, dear,” Dee said softly. Remus swatted at him — really, he swatted Dee’s thigh, and Dee had to bite back a groan.

“I can cut the sexual tension with a _riding crop.”_

Dee blinked hard and tried to remain neutral. “A colorful vision.”

Stepping forward, Remus cried dramatically, “Tell us, Doctor! Is he dying? Will I get to immolate the body and toss it into the sea?”

Roman glared in his direction, opened his mouth to snap, and then coughed. Logan spoke in his stead. “No, Mr. Kingsley. The argument simply agitated his lungs. He’s not going to die.”

Remus lost his flare as he quietly said, “So it’s my fault.”

“Brothers fight,” Logan said calmly as he stepped between Roman’s legs and slid the bell of the stethoscope down the back of Roman’s shirt. Roman leaned forward, his forehead resting on Logan’s chest. Once the stethoscope was placed nicely, he said, “Deep breath… this outcome is no one’s _fault._ Brothers are going to fight, and they are going to fight often. Virgil and I were perfect examples of this.”

Against him, Roman chuckled. “I’ve yet to see you argue.”

“You weren’t there that night,” Logan said, almost like an afterthought. Dee narrowed his eyes at that, eager for an explanation… but none came. Logan took away his stethoscope and Roman reluctantly sat back. He coughed, maybe just for good measure, and Logan went to his bag again. He procured a bottle and a spoon, pouring out a spoonful of the brown syrup while Roman glared at it.

“I’m fine,” Roman said.

“It will help the cough,” Logan insisted. Roman visibly struggled to surprise a cough, shuddering as he huffed and wheezed. Logan held out the spoon and made an unimpressed face. “Mr. Kingsley. I’ve had patients that are _children_ that take their medicine better than you.”

At that, Roman grimaced, but he opened his mouth. The syrup went down, but not without a distasteful expression on Roman’s face. Remus snickered at it.

“Keep making that face,” he said brightly. “I want to immortalize it and put it on your grave when you die.”

Roman glared at him but couldn’t snap anything in return when he coughed. Logan helped him to his feet, holding Roman’s wrists before he took his bag. “I think, rather than arguing, you should retire for the evening.”

Roman narrowed his eyes, ready to take up his shouting where he’d left off… but Logan stood next to him. He couldn’t agonize over the pain of being lost in love when the object of his affections was _right there._ Dee admired his self-discipline when he frowned, sighed, and took the good doctor’s arm (much to Logan’s surprise.)

“Walk me to my room, Dr. Stein,” he requested crossly. He covertly kicked Remus in the shin as he went to the door, and Remus only laughed. Roman spoke to no one in particular when he said, “I’m afraid my brother will try to say something _unkind_ if I leave you alone with him.”

Logan frowned at that, holding Roman’s hand to the crook of his elbow as they opened the door and stepped outside. When the door had closed, Dee hardly had a moment to brace himself before Remus took his collar and dragged him back to the bed. Remus tried to push him down onto the blankets, but Dee caught himself, taking Remus’s arm and throwing _him_ onto the bed instead. Remus fell and rolled with a laugh, only pausing to bite his bottom lip and grin up at Dee. Dee crawled onto the bed over him, looking over Remus with a calm, dark smile.

“My turn,” he said without room for argument. Remus shrugged, reaching up to pull Remus in for a kiss.

“It’s madness,” Remus said when he caught his breath. Dee hummed in confusion, one hand holding him up and the other working at Remus’s belt. Remus lifted his hips so the belt could be removed. “They’re so _hopeless_ , I just want to smother them.”

“I’m sure it’ll come together eventually,” Dee said as he kissed down Remus’s neck. Remus squirmed, laughing loudly when his ticklish skin was showered in kisses. In retaliation, he reached down and grabbed Dee through his trousers. Dee jolted and groaned euphorically, finally, _finally_ being touched, before he fell forward on his elbows. Remus chuckled victoriously. With a kiss to the shell of Remus’s ear, Dee sat back and worked on unbuttoning his vest while Remus did the same. “Is his why you’re so agitated? Because they can’t see the obvious?”

“Love is fickle,” Remus said with a sour expression. “Love is _trite.”_

“Love is contrary,” Dee said sternly. Remus looked at him. Then he reached up, dragged Dee down, and kissed him hard. Dee laughed. “Well, I must have said _something_ right.”

“Yes, yes. Now do me one better and make me see stars.”

“That,” Dee promised with a kiss, “Can be arranged, my dear.”

+++++

Just down the hall of the summer home, Roman was changing into his nightclothes while Logan sat in and armchair and puffed at his pipe. There was a tall screen covering Roman, an elegant addition to the room that suited a _lady_ more than a man… but through that screen, Logan could see Roman’s silhouette as he shed his shirt and trousers and pulled a nightgown over his head. Logan looked away, inhaled deep, and felt the clouds of smoke in his lungs before he exhaled.

Behind the screen, Roman coughed softly. “ _Gah!_ Whatever angel designed me needs to be _punished._ This cough is ridiculous.”

Logan crossed his legs calmly. “If angels existed, you could write a strongly-worded letter.”

A faint laugh, and Roman wondered, “Should I address it to the higher-ups, Doctor?”

“I would demand compensation.”

Roman laughed. “So _blithe_ , your humor… I think, secretly, you could be a very funny man.”

Taking his pipe from his lips, Logan glared at the dressing-screen. “I’m not a _joke_ , Mr. Kingsley.”

“I never said you were!” Roman stepped around the screen and walked across the room with a calm purpose. He coughed a bit, sighed, and said, “One foolish statement does _not_ a fool make. My father used to say that.” He paused, looking into the distance as he said, “I don’t think Remus listened.”

“I doubt he did.” Logan stood and lingered awkwardly as Roman pulled back the blankets and prepared for bed. Why had he come in? Because Roman had asked him to step inside? Because he offered a light for Logan’s pipe? Roman coughed again, a grating, painful cough that snapped Logan out of his thoughts. He stepped forward, ready to help Roman should he need it. “Is the syrup helping _at all?”_

Roman drank the water on his bedside table and laid down huffily. “It _is_ … I just wish it didn’t make me so tired. Even when I’m not ill, I’m frail.” He frowned up at Logan as he pulled up the blankets. “Which I _hate._ When I was young, I’d read books with my mother. She would tell me of knights and heroes and princes. I’d always wanted to be a knight. To save the day. I think… those dreams have all but dissipated.” He paused and looked a little distant when he said, “Though the Romantic in me seems to have prevailed.”

While Roman laughed at this thought, it wasn’t a bright sound. It was more resigned than anything. Logan sat on the side of the bed, his pipe sitting heavy in his hand as he looked out the bedroom window. The rain fell steadily, and Roman was getting drowsy from the morphine in the syrup.

“Your poetry reflects that,” he said without thought. Roman’s eyes snapped back opened, like he’d forgotten that Logan was still there. He made a confused noise, and Logan said, “Your poetry. It’s all very… Romantic. And emotional.”

The smile on Roman’s face bloomed bright and he touched Logan’s arm. “You’ve read it? You read my poetry! What did you think? Did you like it?”

“It’s… different.” Logan nodded, glancing at the stardust that glittered in Roman’s sleepy green eyes. “I don’t often read poetry, so I’m certain I can’t offer an adequate opinion.”

Roman shrugged loosely, his hand still heavy on Logan’s arm. “I think your opinion matters. Poetry isn’t always elegant. Sometimes it’s raw emotion. Anything you have to say… anything at all, will be worth hearing.”

Logan felt his chest seize as he looked at Roman. How did he do this? How did he steal into Logan’s affections so _completely?_ He did it without permission or say so… he just waltzed into Logan’s life like the dawn breaking over a quiet, sleepy sea. It was startling and awe-inspiring. How did he do it? How did it feel like Roman was tearing down a brick wall with his bare hands, taking Logan out of his sheltered headspace and pulling him out into the sunlight? He’d been prepared for rain, but lo and behold… he looked to the east, and Roman was the sun.

“Dr. Stein?”

Logan blinked hard. “Yes.”

Roman’s smile was sleepy, and he patted Logan’s wrist. “I’m not sure if it’s what’s troubling you… but you’re not a coward. Don’t listen to Remus.”

“I am,” Logan said. Roman’s expression crumbled and he looked ready to object, but Logan shook his head. “I am a coward. And I… need to come to terms with it.”

Roman’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

Logan nodded, more to himself than to Roman. He had to acknowledge what was happening. He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t. He couldn’t indulge in Roman’s good faith without thought. He was _attracted_ to Roman Kingsley… and that was something he could never, ever share with the world. Least of all Roman himself.

What would happen if he did? 

At best, they would remain stiff, formal friends. At worst, Logan’s reputation was ruined, and the city viewed him as a pariah and a sexual deviant. He wouldn’t be permitted to practice medicine. He would be shunned, and all his hard work… all his study and labor… would be for nothing. And all of that, on top of losing Roman’s companionship? It would take an idiot to let things go further and spiral out of control. And Logan was no fool.

So, he was in love. So what? Virgil was in love. He was happy and domestic and a father… and Logan just… wouldn’t have those things. He would stay alone. He wouldn’t push himself on Roman. Not when he knew that Roman was so easily romantic… no, Roman spoke to him as a friend and nothing else. It would be greedy to ask for more.

“You’ve drifted away,” Roman’s voice broke through the silence. Logan blinked and looked at him, seeing Roman’s eyes closed and his hand still heavy on Logan’s wrist. “You’ve drifted away. When will you come back?”

“Pardon?”

Roman’s eyes opened and he smiled dreamily. “You’re back! You were lost in your thoughts. Did you know you have a nice jawline?”

Logan blinked hard; the change in topic was reminiscent to a slap in the face. “Excuse me?”

“Your jawline,” Roman reached up, tracing the tip of his index finger along the line of Logan’s jaw. “It’s an elegant line. You work your jaw when you think. And you get that little crease between your eyebrows.” Roman looked positively besotted. Why? Because it was a paintable expression? Roman probably pointed out these things to other people all the time. Logan hummed, and Roman laid back. “And your eyes. Your _eyes_ … I have to paint them some day.”

Ah, that was it. All of Roman’s comments and smiles and touches… it was all just because he wanted to paint Logan. It was simply the whims of a friendly artist. Logan sighed… and smiled. 

“Perhaps. Though I think I’d look terrible in a portrait or photograph.”

Roman blinked, a little surprised, but his smile widened. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d cut a nice figure in a portrait. In any portrait. All of them.”

Logan glanced at him. “You’re trying to butter me up so you can paint me. Don’t think it’ll work.”

Roman laughed sleepily, coughed a bit, and then settled down. They listened to the rain for a moment, two close friends hearing pitter-patter of the rain on the glass panes. Roman’s hand on his wrist went a little slack, and his voice was hardly a murmur when he said, “Dr. Stein?”

“Mr. Kingsley.”

“Which was your favorite?”

Logan made a face, looking at Roman for an explanation, but Roman’s eyes were closed. He didn’t see Logan’s confused stare. He sighed. “My favorite _what,_ Mr. Kingsley?”

“Poem,” Roman said as if it were obvious. “You read my work. Which one did you like most?”

Logan thought for a moment. He couldn’t name any specific poem. They were all intriguing and beautiful for different reasons. He could go through the book that Roman gave him and point at _any_ of them and sat it was his favorite, and the answer would be adequate. Roman wrote of sunshine and rain, the wind in the trees, and the aching between seasons… his favorite? He didn’t _have_ a favorite. They were all lovely.

“I think I’d only be able to know,” he murmured, “If I heard you read them aloud.”

But Roman was already fast asleep.

+++++

Thomas was asleep at his desk. No invisible hands worked at the keyboard today. Not when he was laid across his desk, tired and spent. The rain had stopped a bit after dawn. Virgil and Patton had vanished with it. 

In their stead, the blinds were turned to block the oncoming sunshine and a blanket had been draped over Thomas’s shoulders. For the first time in a long time, the house was silent. Not even the old bones of the house bothered to creak and groan. They were quiet for him, a small pause before the sighs and stories continued.

A small hiatus, for what it was worth, was highly appreciated. The morning bled through into the afternoon, and the story was happy to wait. It had waited over a hundred years to be told. And if Thomas needed a break, then so be it. History settles into a waiting game, watching the present slowly dissolve and crumble into the ever-expanding past.

Thomas slept. And the story waited.

+++++

Logan was startled awake when his bed dipped under the weight of another body. His eyes opened wide and he went reaching for the knife he kept under his pillow (growing up in low-town makes one weary of any bump in the night) only to realize that he wasn’t in his clinic. This wasn’t his bed. That’s right… he was staying in a guest room. He was at the Kingsley Summer Home.

And Roman Kingsley was in his bed, leaning over him with an unreadable expression. Distantly, Logan felt confusion waving twin flags in the back of his brain. But he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. Roman was in his bed, looking at him like he was a work of art, tragic and beautiful, and he couldn’t look away Even without his glasses, things were crystal clear. His eyes, his hair, his lips… how could Logan see all this without his glasses?

“Logan,” Roman whispered, like it was a deep, dark secret. Logan felt the sound of his name jolt all the way down to his toes, and Roman smiled coyly. “Logan…”

Logan opened his mouth to say something, _anything_ … but Roman leaned down and kissed him. Logan melted beneath him, reaching up to pull him closer, closer… just like that, Logan’s walls were smashed in an instant. All that talk to himself about how it wasn’t real, how Roman didn’t want him, it all crumbled down as he rose up to meet Roman.

Roman kissed gently, like he wanted to take his time, but Logan was impatient. He liked to break things down and observe all sides. It was probably why he enjoyed the study of medicine. He put a hand on the back of Roman’s neck and kissed him harder, deeper, and Roman pulled back to laugh against his lips.

“Logan,” he said with all that damn _affection_. He crawled onto the bed with him, pushing one of his legs between Logan’s and grinding against his hip. Logan moaned and arched into him, and Roman leaned close, whispering his name again and sounding so, so far away, “ _Logan.”_

Logan grabbed at him, rocking with Roman’s rhythm as he gasped for breath. The room was spinning. Colors melted together. Roman kissed him, but he couldn’t _feel_ it. Heat tingled in his belly as pressure built up. He moaned, deep and wanton, and Roman laughed again, that soft, teasing giggle that drove him _insane._

“Roman,” he gasped, the air through his lungs too cold and his skin too hot. All of a sudden, everything felt Too Real. He looked at Roman helplessly. Roman kissed the corner of his jaw and reached down, grasping at Logan through the sheets. Logan arched into him, crying a breathless, gasping, “Oh, god— _Roman!”_

Logan’s eyes snapped open.

He was panting, gasping for breath as he stared up at a cream-colored ceiling. His skin was damp with sweat. His heartbeat thudded madly in his chest. An erection pulsed against his thigh. He blinked slowly. He was alone.

It was a dream. It was just a dream.

Throwing back the blankets, Logan went to the vanity where a wash bowl was waiting. The morning was young, and the water was still freezing cold. He took the basin, lifted it, and dumped the cold water over his head. Still, he felt hot and bothered. He looked at himself in the smoky mirror, seeing a blush that traveled from his face to his chest. He set the wash bowl aside and went to the bathroom.

A tub of water was waiting. He’d asked for a bath the other day but hadn’t been up to bathing after he helped Roman to bed. Now the water was cold. Logan stripped out of his bedclothes, stepped into the frigid water, and sat in the tub until the heat under his skin went away. He waited until the pinpricks of cold outmatched his heartbeat and his blushing skin turned pale… white… and then a lightly tinged blue. Still, he sat in the water and shivered.

It was all in his head. He _wanted_ Roman Kingsley. Good lord, he wanted him even now. Even in the freezing water he wanted to stroke himself hard and fast and come unraveled to the _thought_ of Roman. But he wouldn’t. It would be wrong.

So, he sat in the tub, angry and shivering until his fingers and toes had turned blue and wrinkly. Only then did he lift himself up, towel himself off, and prepare for the day. He was a professional, dammit. And he wasn’t about to change that. Not even in the privacy of his own room.

When he descended the stairs on his fourth day at the Kingsley Summer Home, Roman was the only one in the dining room. He was poking at a bowl of porridge, looking very sleepy while a maid wiped crumbs off the other end of the tablecloth. Logan entered the room and Roman looked up, smiled, and sent butterflies fluttering through Logan’s stomach.

“Good morning, Mr. Kingsley. I trust you slept well.”

Roman smile turned sour. “I didn’t, actually. I had the strangest dream. I think it’s that Soothing Syrup.”

Logan sat down and a bowl was set in front of him. He didn’t look at Roman. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“The others went on to the beach. After all that rain, I'm surprised they wanted to go for a walk." Logan hummed, and Roman took this as an invitation to continue. "I'm surprised how well Mr. Lent cares for the little one. But Patton trusts him and I trust Patton, so... I have to assume _all is well."_ Logan stirred at his porridge, and Roman paused for a moment. Silence. And then, like he _needed_ to keep talking, Roman said, "Clara, that little angel… she wanted to help put the worms back into the dirt. So I'm sure they're still out there, walking alone the road and playing in the mud.”

Logan ate slowly. “Is that so.”

For a moment, Roman looked at him, one of those long, thoughtful looks that nearly made Logan anxious. Then, Roman chinked his spoon on his bowl loudly. Logan looked up, and Roman smiled at him. “Good _morning,_ dear doctor. I was wondering when you’d look at me.”

Logan fidgeted. “Can’t a man focus on his breakfast?”

“When a wonderfully intelligent and handsome artist is sitting front of him? No.” Logan rolled his eyes, and Roman laughed. “See? _There you are_.”

“I hadn’t gone anywhere, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman laughed again, “You can’t play dull with me. I _know_ you’re soft, deep down. But you wear this mask… this cold exterior of a man that doesn’t seem like you.”

Logan blew on the tea set in front of him and took a sip. Not enough sugar. “Are you composing poetry?”

Roman hummed. “Not quite. Just marveling at your own self-saving methods.”

Logan took a spoonful of porridge. It tasted like sawdust. He sipped at his tea tiredly, eager to finish the conversation. He felt warm under his collar. “Some call it self-preservation.”

The next words were soft. “And there you go. Gone in an instant.” Logan didn’t say anything as Roman looked at him carefully. He rested his chin in his palm, and though Logan wanted to scold him for putting his elbow on the table, he didn’t. He simply eyed that warm, worried look on Roman’s face as he said, “One moment, I see _you_ … and then you’re a stranger. A cold pocket-watch snapped shut. Such a tightly-wound man… it’s alright to breathe and come unglued.”

Logan glanced at him… and then glanced away. “I’d rather not. Coming unglued would be undignified.”

Roman cocked his head to the side. “Even when we’re alone? Just the two of us? Being friends and all?”

“Even then.”

Roman huffed. “Coward, indeed.” Logan looked at him sharply, but Roman’s smile was smile resigned than teasing. “But so am I, my darling doctor. So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy oh boy...
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ misplaced-my-notes. Feel free to drop by and tell me what you think of the fic or just to say hi!  
> See you next chapter!


	10. Camellias

During his final day at the summer home, Logan distanced himself from Roman. Of course he was still in love and _of course_ he knew what he wanted… but he couldn’t impose more than he already had. He was a guest at their summer home. He was also a doctor on-call. Work came first and manners came second. There was no time to sit and pine for the youngest Kingsley twin.

Instead, Logan resigned himself to reading while the others walked around the idyllic property and admired the sun-filled sky. Miss Dee made a reappearance early that afternoon, claiming that she wanted to walk with Dee before they had to return to London. Hopefully the fresh air would help her delicate constitution.

So Logan sat in the gardens with a book in hand, his eyes not quite reading the poetry in front of him. The lilacs had died off in spring, but he sat among camellias and roses and bleeding hearts… all of them lovely, but not distracting. He thought of Roman. He tried to read. He remembered his dream, vivid and desperate. He gritted his teeth and _tried to read…_ and he thought of Roman. How could he not? He was reading Roman’s poetry, and he didn’t want to go digging through the Kingsley’s library for something new. It would be rude. And so he sat, not reading but staring at the pages while the sound of Clara’s laughter carried on the wind from a long way away.

_“Does the sun envy the moon for its gentle light? Calm and sweet to all desperate eyes?”_

Logan startled and turned to see Roman leaning against the delicate, metal fence of the garden. Behind the fence, he was safe from the brambles and thorns of a blushing red rose bush. He was looking at Logan’s book, and Logan realized what he was doing. He was reading it aloud. Roman went on.

_“For she who is envious knows what she lacks. A disposition for the gentile and a hand in the hearts of man._

_What is it I lack? O, Come, tell me I lack nothing._

_Tell me that I hold the stars in my hands._

_For what I wish is to be the bright, silver moon on your waters.”_

Logan stared at Roman’s expression. His eyebrows drew together, there was no joy on his face… he looked desperate. Eager for approval. Like a young man who had just fallen in love for the first time. He wanted to be seen, and by god, Logan couldn’t look away.

_“O, but do you love the moon? Say aye, and I will set myself in the skies._

_Or do you crave sunlight in our murky days? Take away the darkness and let me shine on what’s left.”_

Roman paused, sighed, and murmured, _“But if you crave nothingness, let me be the emptiness of night. Let me be what calms you._

_For I envy, just like the sun, what captures you.”_

Logan swallowed thickly, marveling at the agonized look on Roman’s face. Then, like nothing had happened, Roman straightened up and smiled brightly. “That was an early one! I wrote it when I was younger. A bit desperate, don’t you think? Eager. Cloying.”

Logan blinked and repeated numbly, “Cloying.”

Roman cocked his head to the side with that nonchalant smile. “Don’t you think? As a young man, Love is such a _desperate_ undertaking. Getting someone’s attention is agonized over. And more often than not, it’s seen as overzealous.”

Turning back to the book, Logan looked at the words. None of them had held that emotion. That melancholy despondence. But he’d seen it clear as day on Roman’s face. He looked _tortured_ by love… Logan knew the feeling. But he hadn’t connected with it until the words dripped from Roman’s lips like honey. Logan closed the book.

“I have to praise your acting skills, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Oh? I’ll always take a compliment, especially from my dear doctor, but I have to ask... why?”

Logan glanced at him. “The emotion was in your voice. I didn’t feel it when I read it the first time.”

Roman smiled at him and leaned his elbows on the frame of the fence. “And now you do?”

“Well, I did,” Logan said quietly. “Just now.”

At that, Roman softened. Then he beckoned Logan toward the beaten road outside the estate. “Come with me, Doctor. Won’t you walk with me for a while? The weather is fair and I feel adventurous.”

Logan wanted to say yes. He wanted to vault over the fence and press Roman to the dirt. He wanted to kiss him senseless and tell him anything and everything. He wanted to touch and be touched. He wanted—

“I’ll have to decline.” Logan took the book of poetry and handed it to Roman. “I’ve finished reading. You do fine work.”

Roman blinked spastically, his hands reaching out to take the book without thought. He had to reach over the roses, and his hand caught on several thorns, but he didn’t even wince when he took the book. “I… thank you, Doctor.”

“I can see why so many people seek out your writings.”

Again, “Thank you, Doctor.”

Logan stepped away from the table in the garden, retreating toward the house. “We’ll be departing for London before long. I’m going to make sure my things are packed. Enjoy your walk, Mr. Kingsley.”

Once more, Roman murmured, “Thank you, Doctor.” But Logan was already gone, disappearing into the house and leaving Roman standing among the gnarled, twisted thorns of the roses. His right hand started to bleed, but he didn’t call for Logan. He stood by the fence with the book held to his chest, watching the dark confines of the house carefully.

Logan didn’t return.

So Roman tossed the book back onto the abandoned table and snarled angrily as he skittered along the road all alone. Dee and Remus weren’t far away, and within a few minutes, he was upon them, taking Remus’s open arm and looping it through his own.

“I’ve decided,” he announced loudly, “That I am like Romeo in love with Rosaline.”

Remus looked at him, her skirts swishing as they continued to walk. “You confessed?” She asked in a high, flabbergasted voice. And then, even more high and confused, “And he _denied_ you?”

Roman grimaced. _“No_ , but I know he doesn’t feel the same.”

“How’s that?” Dee said from Remus’s other side, he looked genuinely confused. Roman didn’t meet his eye, and Dee pressed the issue. “Roman, I find it unlikely—”

“If you’d seen the way he walked away,” Roman said softly, his eyes turning to the sea. He watched the waves, wary of the way Remus’s hand squeezed his arm. She wanted to reassure him. It didn’t work. “He just wanted to get away from me.”

Remus looked at Dee. Their eyes met and a knowing glance was shared between them… but Roman didn’t mind. He knew he was hopelessly falling for someone who wouldn’t love him back. He was already pressing his luck by enjoying Logan’s company at the summer home. And though Logan had been kind and companionable… every reasonable man had his limits.

With a sigh, Roman leaned his head against Remus’s. More specifically, her bonnet. She snickered at the gesture, and he frowned. “She jests at scars that never felt a wound.”

At that, Remus openly laughed, loud and brazen as she shouldered Roman. “Don’t you quote Shakespeare at me, little man. I, for one, think the doctor likes you.”

“He _tolerates me_ ,” Roman sighed, his head still heavy against the black silk bonnet. “If you had heard him in the garden… he was so dismissive.”

Again, Dee and Remus exchanged a look. Then, Dee sighed and steered them along the path. “Dr. Stein is a… distant man. Polite.”

 _“Extremely_ polite,” Remus grumbled unhappily. Dee ignored this.

“Perhaps he’s just trying to stay within the limits of propriety,” Dee finished calmly, a tense line in his voice as he glanced at Roman. He still had that strained, painful look on his face. Dee couldn’t fix it, even if he wanted to. What would he do? Find the doctor and shake him until he came to his senses? Dee quirked an eyebrow; _well…_ it _would_ solve their issue. Remus wouldn’t be angry and Roman would be happy. _If_ the doctor wanted him. Which, _of_ _course_ he did, it was obvious in everything he did or said around Roman.

But Roman didn’t see that. He only saw Logan walking away from him as quickly as he could, escaping into the house to avoid a walk in the sun. Roman sighed. “I think I’m lost in love, too.”

“Just like Romeo,” Remus sighed delicately. She held Roman’s arm closer, unwilling to let go of Dee’s arm to comfort him any further. “Poor thing. Warn me if you plan to poison yourself.”

Roman glared at her, and then looked at Dee. “Your wife is a cruel person.”

Dee smiled. “I know.”

With a sigh, Remus walked a little faster, dragging Roman and Dee with her as she went. “So, Romeo… where do you go from here? Monologuing the pain away? Going to start a fight with another noble family?” Remus’s eyes glittered as she looked at Dee. “I know the perfect family. The _Johns_. They’re getting too comfortable with their wealth in the scrap business…”

“I don’t plan to start any feuds,” Roman said haughtily. Remus laughed at his bitter expression, and Roman’s barbed exterior softened a bit. They walked quietly for a moment, getting farther and farther from the house… they’d have to loop back soon. They would have to return to London eventually. Roman sighed. “I suppose I’ll try to keep him as a friend.”

“Try?” Dee repeated awkwardly. “Why would you have to _try?_ The man is clearly…” he chewed his words, _“Enamored_ with you.”

“Is he?” Roman asked helplessly, a pinch in his expression. Remus sighed and Dee echoed the sound. Roman only looked more distraught. “I can’t tell if you’re lying to me… or simply taking pity on me.”

Dee quirked an eyebrow. “Is there any difference?”

“No,” Roman murmured. He looked out at the sea, his eyes searching for something that wasn’t there anymore. Remus and Dee watched him. They never stopped walking. Roman resigned himself to a life where he would walk this path alone. He probably wouldn’t fall in love with someone again… not the way he fell in love with Logan. They way he fell alone. “No, I suppose there isn’t.”

+++++

Thomas stretched his arms over his head with a yawn. He was _tired_ but there was so much _story_ to tell. And so much of it had just appeared on his laptop while he slept. No one admitted to being the writer.

He read quietly, silently thinking how _stupid_ it was for two people to be so hopelessly in love but so stubborn. Sure, it was probably a product of the times. They were living in an era were being a homosexual was potentially _very_ dangerous. They were scared… but also in love. Honesty was a hot commodity and it was sad to see it get little use.

When he left his room Patton and Virgil were in the hall talking quietly. Patton saw him and smiled. 

“Thomas,” he said warmly. He sounded like a grandparent that just saw his little grandchild toddle up to him for attention. “We were just talking about you.”

Thomas smiled tiredly. “Hope you’re saying good things. Hey, Virgil.”

Virgil gave him a nod. “Hello, Thomas.”

Patton put a hand on Virgil’s chest, leaning toward Thomas with a conspiratorial tone, “You know… I think I like this storytelling business. It’s starting to sound like fun!”

Virgil groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. “ _No,_ love… Remus has infected you. You don’t really want all of our…” he glances at Thomas, _“Private affairs_ made public, do you?”

Thomas blinked slowly. “I’m a historian, not a smut writer.”

Patton waved at the two of them and said, “No, no! The _other_ bits. The way things came together. The way that… well. How things came to be the way that they were.”

Thomas went for the stairs. He needed coffee first. Virgil and Patton followed, mostly because Patton dragged Virgil with him. Thomas went through the dining room, greeted Dee and Remus where they were bickering at the table, and started the coffee pot. He hadn’t gone outside for over a week. He’d need to shop soon.

“Okay,” Thomas sighed once the water started to heat up. “So. You guys went to the summer home. Did _you_ enjoy it?”

Patton lit up and nodded. “It was wonderful! Oh, Clara loved the sea and the sun…”

Even Virgil looked a little wistful as he smiled and said, “do you remember? When the md got deep and we both took her hands, holding her up so her dress wouldn’t get dirty?”

Patton giggled, “I remember she found a frog and wanted to keep it. Oh, she cried and cried when we said no…”

Thomas smiled and listened to them ramble for a bit. It was like doting parents finally getting a chance to talk about their baby when no one else wanted to hear. Of course, they didn’t get to brag about being parents often. Two men raising a child back then? It would be strange to say the least. They had to keep it to themselves… but they really loved her, and it showed. Thomas poured himself some coffee and leaned his hip against the counter.

“So you guys were busy with Clara. You didn’t really have time to worry about Logan and Roman— aside from the time Logan was mad about Remus.”

Patton paused, worried his hands together and said, “Actually… actually, I spoke to Logan about things. It was all very vague, but… we spoke.”

Virgil’s brow furrowed as he thought. He went a little hazy, looking into the distance like it would explain things… before he blinked and mumbled, “In the carriage?”

Patton nodded. “It was late in the evening. Past the time when the sun sets. We were on our way home…”

+++++

The ride back to London was quiet. As quiet as it could be, considering there was a child in the carriage. Clara fussed and didn’t want to sleep but ended up in Virgil’s lap after a half an hour, fast asleep against his shoulder. Virgil was quick to follow, leaving Logan and Patton alone and awake, watching the evening-dark scenery through the small carriage windows.

After a long while, Patton spoke. “That was my first time to the Summer Home,” he said as if it mattered. “It felt… warm. Homey. But lonely, too.” Logan hummed, and Patton sat forward. “Did you get that feeling?”

“In all honesty,” Logan said stiffly. “I think I prefer to ride in carriages _quietly._ ”

“Of course.” Patton sat back. “Of course.” 

They rode for several minutes in that tense, disinterested quiet. Logan thought of the Summer Home. Of Roman’s desire to make a _happy_ memory. He thought of Remus playing in the sea… and being reluctant to step into the house. He thought of Roman’s fever, and for a short while, he thought of his dream. Then he snapped himself out of his thoughts and thought about paint chips.

“Dr. Stein,” Patton said softly. Logan looked at him, seeing those big blue eyes watching him. “Have I done something to offend you?”

Logan twitched; had he come off as cold again? How did it happen? He was snappish. That was it. Logan tried to soften the chip on his shoulder to no avail. “Not at all. I fear I’m not in a companionable mood this evening.”

Patton cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps it’s the weather. It was so nice for the past few days… and now, more rain is coming.”

“The weather,” Logan nodded, though he knew this wasn’t true. He was struggling to push down all the damn _emotion_ that came from loving someone. It was inconvenient and painful. But he could still attend to Roman. He could still speak plainly… couldn’t he?

Roman made him feel soft and warm. Roman made his heart pound and palms sweat. He wanted to listen and speak and have silence all at once. He wanted to touch and have Roman reach for him. He wanted Roman to say his name, just like he had in that detestable dream. He wanted to hear it whispered and giggled… Logan huffed. Maybe he _couldn’t_ do his job when he thought such things.

When Patton reached over to tug the hem of Clara’s dress down so it covered her leg, Logan watched him. He was happy, content to make sure both she and Virgil were warm and slept well. He loved them. And he had everything he could want. Logan almost wanted to throw him out of the carriage out of spite. Instead, he forgot his pride and spoke earnestly.

“Do you love him?”

Patton looked at him. “Who?”

“Virgil. Do you love him?”

Patton flushed a pretty scarlet and looked away, a little bashful as he smiled. “Well, _yes._ Yes, of course I do. Very much.”

Logan felt his chest ache; if Roman loved him, would he be shy like this? Or would he be bold and brazen? Would his love be loud and obnoxious like Remus? He wondered. But he’s never know. Roman didn’t love him. Logan felt a little sick at the thought.

Patton glances at him again. “Can I ask why you’re curious?” He blinked and put a hand over his heart. “If you’re going to ask my intentions, Dr. Stein, I can tell you that I intend to make him happy. As happy as I can.”

A little surprised by this, Logan let out a startled laugh and shook his head. “I’m hardly concerned about your _intentions,_ Mr. Moore. And it’s clear that Virgil is happy.”

“Isn’t he?” Patton practically glowed where he sat smiling brightly. Again, the thought of throwing him out the carriage struck. Logan didn’t do it. But he _thought_ about it. Patton reached over to pat Virgil’s knee. “I think Clara is good for him… and he’s good for her.”

“He’s changed,” Logan admitted. Patton nodded knowingly, and Logan glanced at him. “Did you know he’d be a good father?”

“Did I?” Patton smiled and sat back. “Virgil is a worrier. And good fathers worry about their children.”

“I assume you speak from experience.”

“I speak from the position of a man who had a very _not worried_ father,” Patton said with that same smile. He seemed unbothered by this information. As if poor fathers were a common occurrence. Logan couldn’t speak for himself. His father died before he had a chance to _be_ a father. Still, Patton seemed certain. “Virgil has a firm hand. But he’s kind. Relaxed in some ways while tense in others.”

Logan raise an eyebrow. “You’re contradicting yourself.”

Patton smiled. “Dr. Stein. Can I be perfectly honest?”

“Of course.”

“I worry for you.”

Logan blinked, feeling pride bubble up from where he’d disregarded it, and he straightened his shoulders. “Excuse me?”

Patton’s eyes lingered on him, scrutinizing for a long while… before he looked away. “I think Roman cares for you a great deal. He holds you in a _very_ high regard.”

Logan glances out the window. “I’m aware.”

“And yet,” Patton said, “And _yet_. You seem so _bewildered_ by unconditional love.”

Logan turned back to him. “I… what does unconditional love have to do with Mr. Kingsley?” Patton stared at him. He didn’t smile. Logan shifted uncomfortably. “I… I don’t think I understand what you’re implying.”

Patton sighed and looked away. “And that’s why I worry for you. I struggled with feelings, myself. And I can’t tell you how to comprehend your own self when we’re so different. But I…” he paused, shook his head, and said, “I suppose this is something you’ll learn on your own.”

Logan scowled. “I know what unconditional love _is,_ Mr. Moore. I know it in use, as well. My mother loved me very much.”

“I don’t doubt it!” Patton laughed softly. “Virgil speaks of her often. She sounded like a wonderful mother.”

“She was.”

Patton’s eyes went sharp behind his glasses. “But this is love of another kind.”

Logan remained stone-faced. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Patton sighed and leaned back against the seat cushions. “You are so smart.”

Logan blinked, getting a bit of whiplash. “Thank you.”

Patton’s smile turned very, very sad. “You are so, so smart. So why…?” Patton didn’t finish his statement. He closed his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and fell asleep. Logan was left alone with that question.

He loved Roman Kingsley. He loved him unconditionally. But Roman didn’t love him back. He wouldn’t, no matter what Logan said. ‘ _So, why…?_ ’ What could he do but watch from afar? Yearn the night away? He saw hope and knew that it would be dashed, so he held it close and tight, unwilling to let his hand show. _‘So, why…?’_ Logan wanted to go back. Back before he knew Roman Kingsley and fell so terribly far for him. He wanted to erase the afternoon that they met, back when spring was young and the air was crisp. He wanted to forget when Roman reached up, touched his face, and whispered, “Those _eyes…”_

So, why? Why was he playing a cold, unfeeling doctor? Because that’s what he wanted to he. He wanted to be serious. He wanted to forget that he was in love. It wasn’t that simple. It was never that simple. Still, be hoped and he longed, too far gone to really shake the feeling. And he played at being an unfeeling man, unburdened by love. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he would fall out of love. _Maybe._

Until then, he looked out the window. It was dark. Too dark to see anything outside the carriage. Logan didn’t sleep, but he thought of London. He thought of work and business… and of Roman Kingsley.

+++++

“Did you know?” Remus asked brightly when Thomas came to sit in the dining room.

“Did I know what?”

“That I was the last of us to die.” Remus said this matter-of-factly, like this was something to be proud of. Virgil and Patton sat quietly, eyeing Remus warily as he went on. “Yes, it’s not a _grand_ fact. But it’s notable.”

Thomas sipped at his coffee. “Yes, I knew that you died last. Your death is on record just a few days after Dee died.”

Remus snapped his fingers and slapped the table. “Yes! Dee went and I went right after. Couldn’t see a world without him.”

Across the table, Patton suddenly looked very uncomfortable. Virgil took his hand, laced their fingers together, and kissed the back of his hand. Patton’s discomfort didn’t go away, and Dee seemed to notice it. 

“Mr. Moore,” he said, “We realize that you had a _child_ to think of. Remus’s solution was born of desperation. It shouldn’t be envied.”

Patton looked startled that people noticed his expression. “Oh! Oh, _no_ , I wasn’t—"

Remus sat forward and gave him a dark look. “Rat poison wasn’t exactly gourmet, Patton. Don’t be jealous of the way I died.”

Patton gave a high-pitched nervous laugh. “I… I don’t envy you, I…” he looked down at his and Virgil’s joined hands. “After Virgil—" he stopped short, took a breath, and said, “After Virgil, I lived long enough to see my daughter grow up and be wed. I held my granddaughter in my arms. I lived a fine life, but I.... I missed Virgil so much. More than anything, I think it’s what did me in, in the end.”

Thomas sipped his coffee slowly, letting the table absorb the words before he gently said, “It’s been scientifically proven… that people can die from a broken heart.”

Patton looked at him with wide eyes. “B-broken…” he looked at Virgil and squeezed his hand. He didn’t say anything more.

Remus kicked back in his chair and sighed. “This is a roundabout _uncomfortable_ way of saying: Death!” He spread his hands wide, “Can it kill you? Apparently not. Because we’re here. What a turn of events!”

Thomas had a powerful thought. Maybe he needed therapy. Maybe these weren’t actually ghosts. Maybe he worked too hard. He mulled this thought as Remus lifted his feet and put them up on the table like he always did.

“It was a bitter summer day,” he said without prompting. “The sky was bright, but gray and ready for rain. Nature’s mistress left her low, and she was ready to make us sorry. On that day, Roman called on our dear Dr. Stein…”

+++++

It had been ten days since Logan had returned from the Kingsley Summer Home, and he hadn’t heard from Roman since. This wasn’t a bad thing. It meant Roman didn’t care for his constant company. It confirmed Logan’s speculations: Roman Kingsley saw him as nothing but an amusing distraction.

This isn’t to say that the thought didn’t _sting_. Logan immensely enjoyed Roman’s company… Roman _said_ he enjoyed Logan’s. But there was a limit. Roman’s words may be flowery and sweet, but there were thorns underneath. Logan felt the pinpricks and saw the blood. Roman Kingsley didn’t feel the same. And he never would.

He was busy enough on his own, anyway. As a doctor, there was always something to do. Children fell and hurt themselves. A man burned himself with the fire stoker. A woman fell ill. People always needed his services and he was one of the best doctors in London. He was thankful for the work and the distractions.

Until a note came to him. The boy knocked on his door without urgency, handed over the letter, and then held out his hand for payment. Logan gave him a shilling and pulled the ratty hat down over the boy’s eyes. He giggled and pushed his hat back up, running off to find fun somewhere else. Logan opened the letter.

_Dearest doctor,_

_At your earliest convenience._

_— Roman Kingsley_

It was curiously vague, like he’d written the note while half-aware. Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps he just wanted Logan to sit for a portrait. Perhaps both. Either way, Logan was slow to put his tools away and gather his bag. He walked at a leisurely pace, unsure of why he was going straight to Roman. There were other things he could be doing. Better things. Practical things. And yet, his heart was dragging him forward step by step toward the street where he lived.

When he reached the door, he met Patton on the way out. Patton stopped and smiled, tipping his hat as he held the door and let Logan step in. As he did, Patton reached out a gloved hand to touch Logan’s arm.

“He’s in a strange mood, Doctor. Look after him?”

Logan blinked. “I’m not a nanny, Mr. Moore.”

Patton’s smile never wavered. “I’m not asking you to nanny. I’m asking you to listen. He won’t talk to me… but I feel he’ll talk to you.”

With that, Patton vanished down the street with a spring in his step. He was off to see Virgil and Clara, probably. Logan stepped inside the house and closed the door. It was quiet. Quiet enough that the ticking of the grandfather clock was almost unnerving as Logan removed his hat and tucked it under his arm. He climbed the stairs slowly enough for Roman to anticipate his entrance… but there was no movement from the studio. All was quiet.

Logan opened the door without knocking. He wasn’t sure why (he knew exactly why) but he was worried. Afraid for Roman. A strange mood? Not sharing with Patton? This all sounding very unlike Roman. Roman was an idle gossiper. He loved to twitter to whoever would listen. Silence wasn’t like him. And so was the scene before Logan.

Roman sat at his desk by the far wall. The large canvas was still there, still beautiful and idyllic against the wall. The colors had changed again. It was warmer somehow. But distant, like tasting a wine that was _almost_ as sweet as you remembered. The sky was warmer. The sea didn’t seem as stormy. At the desk, Roman sat back and glanced at the canvas.

“It’s not done,” he said. No ‘hello’ or ‘thank you for coming.’ Just dark, hollow words where he sat. He didn’t even look sick. What did he want? Roman breathes deep and sighed. “It’s missing something. I’m just not sure…” he stopped, looked at Logan, and smiled. “Hello, Doctor.”

“Good afternoon.” A pause, and they simply looked at one another. Logan took a deep breath. “Mr. Kingsley, is there a reason you—”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Roman cut him off. He looked out the window above his desk, oddly contemplative as he said, “Do you ever wonder what awaits us? Beyond the grave?”

More than a bit concerned, Logan stepped forward, placed his hat on Roman’s desk, and put his palm against Roman’s forehead, feeling for a fever. Roman paused, chuckled, and pushed his hand away.

“I’m not ill, you dear man.”

Logan took up his hat slowly; true, there was no fever... but what a question. “I’ve not heard a question like that since... well, since the last time I spoke to a patient on their deathbed.”

“I’m not sick, nor am I dying,” Roman promised softly, his eyes trained on the bustling city beyond them. “I simply wanted to hear your thoughts.”

Frowning, Logan tucked his hat under his arm again. “Of what awaits us?”

“Yes. After death, yes.”

“Nothing.” Roman finally looked at him, baffled, and Logan pushed his glasses up on his nose. “We simply die. We cease to exist. Our consciousness, awareness, humors and thereof end with the silence of our hearts.”

Roman twisted the pen in his hand thoughtfully. “And I assume that means you don’t believe in the Afterlife.”

“No.”

“Or Heaven?”

“No.”

Roman looked down at the page in front of him, a little quiet as he said, “And God?”

Logan sighed and checked his pocket watch. “Given my previous answers, my answer should be fairly obvious.”

Roman thought for a moment. “So when my parents died... what happened? Where did they go?”

Logan twitched at the question, his shoulders a bit heavy from the burden of it. He remembered the Summer Home. He remembered hearing about the death of Roman’s parents. He remembered Roman, so determined to be at peace…and still, he said, “We are born of the earth and return to it. We are all on borrowed time, and always have been. When our time comes, we simply cease to be. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

Roman didn’t look placated by this. In fact, he looked troubled. Logan knew why, but it stung to see him look almost _heartbroken_ where he sat looking up at Logan. He murmured, “Have you always been so cold and distant? No hope for Heaven within you?”

Logan felt defensiveness bristle in his words as he said, “I’ve always been this way, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman gave him a tortured look. “I pity your childhood.”

“And I pity your naivety,” Logan said stiffly. He had no reason to believe in miracles, heavenly or otherwise. When someone died, that was the end of things. There was nothing more to be said. He forced the pain of missing his mother aside. Logan blinked and placed a heavy hand on the desk in front of him. “Mr. Kingsley, you aren’t sick. You have no need of me. _Why am I here?”_

After a long, sad look, Roman turned back to his papers and sighed. “I’m not sure. I woke up this morning with the strangest melancholy... I’d perhaps hoped, as friends... but... no.” Roman took a breath. “It seems I called for the wrong person.”

Logan blinked, feeling his heart flutter. Of all people, Roman wanted to see _him._ He wouldn’t even speak to Patton. But… no. Roman didn’t it mean it _that way_. Logan steeled his heart once more. “You... Mr. Kingsley I am not a nobleman with time to spare. I have work to do. Patients to attend. I am—"

“Busy, yes, I know.” Roman twirled his pen in his fingers, the restless movement offsetting his words as he said, “I’d felt... the strangest feeling in my chest.”

Logan stiffened and reached over to touch Roman’s shoulder. “A tightness? A shortness in breath?”

Roman shook his head solemnly. “A loneliness. But you’re not my priest, Dr. Stein. You obviously aren’t the one to turn to for comfort.”

Taking his hand away slowly, Logan felt oddly ill-at-ease with this information. “If... if you know that, then why call for me at all?”

“To see you, I suppose.” Roman’s eyes lingered on him, and his hand twitched in the desk, almost like he wanted to reach out and touch Logan, only to stay still. “To be with you for a moment.” Roman smiled sadly but didn’t meet his eye. “A foolish venture. I promise not to do it again.”

Something in Logan’s chest tugged painfully. Deep, deep down... it was almost wounding. Logan tensed at the sensation. Was it the loneliness that Roman felt? Was he upset he was being turned away... or was it the topic of conversation? Logan wasn’t sure. He only knew the ache burned deeper when Roman turned away from him and held a hand to his temple, blocking his expression from Logan’s view.

“Please, take your leave, Doctor. I apologize for monopolizing your time.”

Logan’s feet felt bolted to the floor despite those words. “Mr. Kingsley—"

Roman waved him away, already writing something at his desk. Poetry? Fiction? His last will and testament? “Leave a bill with for your time, if you wish. I’ve work to do.”

Numbly, Logan turned away, his hat heavy in his hand and mind racing as he fought to make heads or tails of the interaction. Heaven, the afterlife, Logan, and loneliness... Logan paused; Roman’s parents. He was thinking of his parents. He was lonely. He wanted to believe they were still somehow, someway, lingering on earth. Logan frowned at that thought. They weren’t. They were dead. Nothing could change that. Still, the pang of loss cuts deep, no matter the time spent apart from it.

Logan hesitated in the doorway; his hat held in his hands tightly as he worked around the brim uneasily. Roman’s pen scratched away at the parchment. He didn’t ask Logan to stay. Even so, Logan hesitated.

“Mr. Kingsley,” he said softly. The pen-scratching paused. Logan turned to look at him, Roman was still bent over his desk, shoulders tense and a hand to his temple. He didn’t look at Logan.

“Doctor,” came a hoarse and tired reply.

Logan fidgeted with his hat a bit more, uneasily with the words that sat in his mouth. “I know I am... abrasive.” Roman didn’t say anything, and Logan went on. “I am a man of science. I do not believe — now, or before — in Heaven. Or angels. Or miracles. Or God.” Roman stayed still. His pen didn’t move. Logan stepped forward slowly, his feet rolling through each careful step as he said, “That said, simply because I do not believe, doesn’t particularly mean it does not exist.”

Roman finally seemed to break. His hand lowered from his face, though his shoulders still hunched against the world, hiding his face from Logan as he remained silent. Logan came close, a hand coming to rest on the back of Roman’s chair when he stopped.

“It could be real; Heaven, Angels, God... it could be real.” Roman didn’t speak. Standing beside Roman’s chair, Logan could see the tears marking his face. Even so, Roman didn’t speak. He didn’t even tremble. “I may not believe,” Logan said, “But I could be wrong.”

At that, Roman gave a weak laugh. The sound itself was broken, and he didn’t dare turn to look at Logan, but he laughed nonetheless. “You’re never wrong,” he whispered, hardly more than a breath.

“I could be,” Logan said without thought. “I could be wrong. For you,” Logan touched his shoulder, “It could be real.”

Roman looked up at him, broken and tear-stained, and leaned over. His head rested against Logan’s chest, and he stayed there, a warm weight against Logan as he wept. And that... well, Logan wasn’t sure what to make of it. He’d never had to console a patient like this. But... Roman wasn’t really his patient. Not then, anyway. Not in that moment. He was a man with faith who was struggling. His friend was grieving a loss that Logan knew well. Logan didn’t know how to cope with that, either. So he did the only thing he could think of:

He put a hand on the back of Roman’s neck and held him there as long as he wished. For as long as Roman wanted to cry, he’d stay. Protocol be damned, he’d stay. For Roman Kingsley, Logan would do just about anything. He might even pray. But for now, he would stand there, warm and real and supportive as Roman clung to him.

And in that time, for a moment, _just for a moment_... Logan almost wanted to believe. To promise it was real. That Roman’s parents were in heaven, watching over him. But Logan had been cut too deep by a cruel world. The scars lingered too long. He couldn’t lie to save himself or anyone else. He could confess. He could tell Roman that he loved him. That he was so deeply loved, Logan would do anything to keep him from feeling sorrow ever again. But Roman didn’t need a distraction. He didn’t need the burden of Logan’s love. He needed Logan to simply _be there._ So he was silent.

Roman cried, and he didn’t say a word.

+++++

Remus went quiet after this. It wasn’t that he’d run out of story. In fact, it was clear that there was more. But he leaned back with a meaningful grimace on his face. Thomas hadn’t known Remus long. Not personally, anyway. But he knew how to read a room.

The look on Remus’s face was pinched and strained, and he rose from his chair, dragging his fingertips along the surface of the table as he walked across the room. Dee rose with him, a careful eye on his retreat as he took his notebook and handed it to Thomas. Then, the exited the dining room. Thomas didn’t hear anything else… not even the sleepy wooden floors announcing their travel to another room. They were gone.

Dee’s journal in his hand was heavy. Maybe with reality. Maybe with the next part of the story… with the information that Remus was too scared (or too proud) to admit. He looked at the smooth, black leather cover. It was new. Dee had barely cracked the binding when he opened it. And still, there were _pages_ of information. Thomas took a deep breath.

“I think I need to… transpose this. Into the story.” He said to no one in particular. He looked up, ready to explain himself, only to see an empty dining room.

Virgil and Patton were nowhere to be found. He took the journal to his room, opened to the first page, and weighed down the cover with the edge of his laptop so he could read and type. The words were a struggle to understand, the old, curling cursive of a long-dead debtor being difficult to read… but he did his best. He typed through the quiet end of a long-standing night, only stopping when the sunlight of a new day started to stream through the blinds.

Even then, he read and reread. Trying to make sense of it. Trying to make heads or tails of the decisions made and discussions held. Logan and Roman, love and pain and pining… it was all jumbled up with fear and mistrust. They couldn’t trust each other or themselves… they both thought love was a pipe dream and yet they _yearned_ for each other’s comfort. They wanted to see one another and hold one another.

Why couldn’t it be simple? Why could they just _say it?_

Thomas flipped back a few pages, flattened the journal out for easier reading, and sighed. It wasn’t that easy. Not then, and not now. There was more to be said. If it was simple, then Roman Kingsley would have come back by now.

There were still pieces missing, and Thomas was going to find them.

+++++

Across the city from where Roman cried in Logan's arms, Remus held up a cigar for Dee. He leaned close, took a long drag, and let the smoke out of his lungs before going back to work. Remus put cigar back between his teeth and spread his legs wide to support the large canvas in his lap. The basement was dark and shadows were all along the walls… but Remus had a lantern above him with plenty of light, so he could paint at his leisure. In front of him, one ‘Mr. Salt’ was on the floor. Still, Dee took the whip and brought it down hard.

 _THWACK._ Leather on skin. Normally Remus liked that sound. Not today. Something felt off. His brush felt odd in his hand. He chewed on his cigar before he took it from his teeth. 

“Dee?”

 _THWACK_ , and then a breathless, angry, “What?”

“Something’s off.”

Dee raised the whip, paused, and then lowered it. He pivoted to look at Remus. “What?”

Remus shrugged and tilted his canvas. The blood was dark and the face was tortured. ‘Mr. Salt’ wasn’t even moving anymore. At this point, Dee was making wine. Again, Remus said, “Something’s… off. Not sure what.”

Dee looked at him, stepped close, and kissed him. “Your mustache grew back _fine,_ Remus.”

“That’s not— first of all, it _feels_ crooked— but that’s not what’s bothering me.” Dee made a face. The scar on his cheek was highlighted by shadows. Remus fidgeted and put the canvas aside. Then he took Dee’s collar and dragged him close. “Don’t you ever get that feeling? A little tingly?”

“Often. When I think of you.”

Remus let go of Dee’s collar and laughed loudly. It echoed in the basement, bouncing off the stone walls and back again. “Flattering! But as much as the _tingling_ in your trousers excites me, I’d like to talk about this... other one.” Remus scratched at the back of his neck, feeling the short, curling hairs there stand on end as thought. “Sometimes I wonder… if I’m upset on someone’s behalf.”

“On _Roman's_ behalf?”

Remus looked at him. “Who else?” Dee didn’t say. He put his tools aside and sat with him. Remus grimaced and kicked the floor. “I feel. Angry. About nothing. Unhappy for no reason. No reason!”

Dee looked uncomfortable. Remus knee why; he was the type of man that wanted to make things good. He wanted Remus to be happy regardless of the rules. He wanted their time together to be pleasant, no matter the circumstances. It was why they were married. Remus leaned against him and Dee immediately put an arm around him.

“We could call on Roman,” Dee offered. “Have him over for tea. Or supper.”

Remus hummed unhappily. “I can’t fix it. I can’t help him. I’ve tried.”

“You’ve distracted him, darling.”

“And those distractions did _nothing!”_ Remus stood up and marched over to the limp body on the floor. He kicked it, felt the flesh give under his foot, and he growled. “What kind of brother can’t even _help_ his own twin?”

“The kind with problems of his own,” Dee said gently. Remus turned to glare at him, and Dee didn’t flinch. “You can look at me like that all you want. You can’t _fix_ him, Remus. He doesn’t need to be mended.”

Remus felt something dark and dangerous bubble up in him. “My brother is in _pain,_ Andréa.”

“And you can’t heal that pain,” he said matter-of-factly. “Don’t look at me like that. Sometimes, you can’t. It’s just the way of things.”

“You’re saying I can’t help my own _brother?”_

Dee caught his tone but didn’t take the bait for an argument. “I’m saying your anxiety is uncalled for.”

Without thought, Remus grabbed the whip from the floor and raised it. Dee didn’t flinch. “Tell me I can’t help him! Say it! _Say it!”_

Dee didn’t even stand from his seat. He looked Remus in the eye, lowered his chin a bit, and said, “You can’t, darling. Telling your brain to hush will only make the thoughts louder. Roman is among those thoughts. You can’t sit and tell him to be peaceful.” A pause, and then, “The mind races when told to sit still. Let him be. He will quiet himself. It simply takes time.”

Remus shook with barely contained anger. No, not anger. _Frustration._ He wasn’t about to hurt Dee. He’d never hurt Dee. Why was the whip in his hand? Why had he taken it up in the first place? To feel better? To feel like he could _do_ something? His grip went slack and the weapon fell from his grip, hitting the cold, stone floor with a soft clatter.

He _hated_ this feeling. This bubbling, fitful emotion. He’d been running from it for _years_. He’d drowned it in opium smoke and good brandy and sex. _So much sex_ … but all at once, something was crashing into him. Like a going full speed ahead, running and running from the world… only to go over the edge of a cliff, spiraling down, down…

Without a word, Dee stood and took Remus into his arms. He pulled him in, tucking Remus’s face into his shoulder. Remus gasped, feeling himself shuddering a little bit as he breathed. Something hot was on his face. Warm and wet… he was crying. Remus gritted his teeth and grasped at the back of Dee’s coat.

He _hated_ this feeling… but Dee made it a little better. Standing there with him was so much better. This feeling… it had been there when he’d seen his parents at the Summer Home. When they were buried. When he had to say goodbye to them. Once. Twice. A thousand times over. It came back and back and it never went away… and Roman. Oh, Roman. It hit him just as hard.

And Remus couldn’t _fix it_. No man could undo death, no matter how hard he tried.

With a shuddering breath, Remus pulled himself against Dee as close as he could, pressing himself into the smell of expensive perfumes and silk and sweat… he closed his eyes tight, but the tears didn’t want to stop. “Do you…” he choked, “Do you ever feel so _useless?”_

“Yes,” Dee’s words were loud in the quiet, quiet basement. The flame in the lantern _snapped_ in the open air, and Dee’s words rang just above that sound. “Whenever you feel like this. I’ve never felt so powerless.”

“I can’t even… _can’t even help_.” Remus fisted his hands in the back of Dee’s vest and dug his fingernails into the flesh beneath. Dee hardly squirmed; he only held Remus tighter when Remus said, “I tried to help him with the doctor… but with the _doctor_ … he’s always so _bright_. He shines when the man is around, dammit—and I—I can’t…! Can’t even h… _help_ ….”

“Remus,” Dee said softly, like this would placate him. Remus tore himself away from Dee, grabbing his collar and looking into Dee’s eyes desperately.

“They’re _gone,_ Andréa! And I can’t _fix_ that! He won’t smile like he used to again! He never will!”

“ _Remus_ ,” he said again.

“The only time he breaks and really _smiles_ is when he talks about Dr. Stein and I tried to help, and I _ruined_ it, and now the man won’t look at him and now there’s this _feeling—”_ Dee pulled him back in. He didn’t tell him to be quiet. He didn’t try to smother the words. He simply passed a gentle, gentle hand through Remus’s hair as he growled and sobbed. “It’s not _fair_. I’m supposed to be the _older one_ … the _strong one_ … the one that doesn’t… doesn’t…”

“The one that doesn’t cry?” Dee finished, almost a little startled by the idea. Remus hiccupped and buried his face. Dee kissed his hair and rubbed his back. “I find that unreasonable. Every man cries.”

“You don’t,” Remus grumbled against Dee’s starched collar. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. Not even on our wedding day.”

“Oh, I have,” Dee murmured gently. He tilted his head back, taking a deep, deep breath as twin tears rolled down his cheeks.

He wanted to be able to soothe this feeling. To make Remus feel better. But to do that, he had to make Roman feel better. Both would include him turning back time and reviving their parents. That was something dee couldn’t do. Still, he wanted to mend the cracks in Remus’s heart, to fill in the gaps with gold and let him _shine_ … but he couldn’t. He couldn’t, and the man he loved was crying. He couldn’t _fix_ this. Not with all the money in the world. So Dee cried silently; it was the only way of crying he’d ever known. He pressed another kiss to Remus’s hair, sighing softly when Remus looked up and met him with a kiss. Then, Remus stared. He saw the tears. His green eyes glittered painfully in the low light.

“I’ve cried before,” Dee said again, soft and tired. “You’ve just never seen it.”

Remus kissed him again, and the world went dark as Dee closed his eyes and kept them shut. Remus kissed him without urgency. There was no real fire behind the action as he twisted his hands in Dee’s collar and held tight.

“What if…” Remus whispered against his lips. Dee opened his eyes a bit, seeing the blur of Remus’s long, dark eyelashes and the furrow of a thoughtful brow. “What if Dr. Stein _doesn’t_ … what if he—”

“Oh,” Dee sighed as his pressed their foreheads together. “He loves your brother. No doubt of it.”

“I know _that_ ,” Remus deadpanned. Then, he turned a little serious again, his mustache twitching as he sniffled and said, “But what if he never… _says it?_ If they don’t get their heads out of the clouds… Roman won’t… he won’t…”

“It’s not something we can force.”

“But—”

Dee kissed him, and Remus looked at him sharply, his eyes cutting into him where they stood in the cold, cold basement. Dee smiled, and it was more troubled than certain. “Pressing it will make things worse. Your meddling has distressed the doctor. Let his thoughts settle.”

Remus blinked, a hint of recognition in his eyes as he whispered, “I can’t sit… and tell him to be peaceful. He’ll… quiet himself…” his eyes flickered with annoyance. “This is a pain in the arse. Why can’t they just—”

“Remus.”

 _“Fine_ ,” Remus fell against Dee’s chest again. They stood there for a moment, finding more than ample comfort in each other’s presence. It was an odd afternoon. One that strained emotions while the scent of blood and paints hung in the air. Remus sighed, and Dee rubbed his back soothingly.

“Is the feeling still there?”

“No,” Remus murmured, like a heavy afterthought. “It’s faded. Like paint after a long while in the sun. Crackling and breaking. A knife under a fingernail goes numb when you cut deep enough.”

“Come back, darling. You’re drifting.”

Remus snickered and kissed Dee’s neck. “I’m alright, you buffoon.” A pause, and then, “Do you really think… _letting them be_ is the best choice?”

“I think _pressing things_ makes them worse,” Dee noted calmly. He passed a hand through Remus’s hair and each messy curl caught on his fingers, twisting lovingly as he worked through them. Remus sighed, and Dee echoed the sound with a thoughtful tilt of his head. “As for the rest… I suppose only time will tell.”

+++++

In the journal on his desk, Thomas read a line. He read it again. And again. These words were ones he _knew_. He’d _studied_ this note. He’d assumed it to be unpublished poetry, found in the depths of Roman Kingsley’s archived works. But no, that’s not what it was.

_In Roman’s weakness_ , Dee had written _, in his agony and bitterness, he waved the good doctor away. He clung to his writings, reaching into the obscure depths of poetry and isolation within the hopes that it would cure him. It did not. For the doctor stood with him, allowing Roman to cry against him as the sorrow of the world came down upon him. Below, I will relay Roman’s writing to you:_

Thomas read it again. And again. It stung now that he knew what it meant. Now that he _felt_ the context and knew the ache of it. Roman Kingsley was crying through time and space, and Thomas couldn’t look away.

_I fear for the souls of the past. For that of my Mother and Father._

_I fear that I grow farther from them, to you, and back._

 _I fear for my soul, so lost in you. Do you know?_ Roman wrote, desperate and calling for attention, _Do you know?_ _Do you know how much I love you?_

Thomas closed the journal. That note had been found in Roman's things, tucked away and hidden from the word until journals were donated to museums. Logan had probably never seen this. He didn't know how _much_ Roman was going through. He didn't know the fear and anger... Logan only knew his own. But there is always a double edge to a sword and few people are immune to a swinging blade. Thomas sat back. Sighed. And closed his laptop.

There was nothing left to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Red camellias are said to symbolize romantic love and desire for someone. If gifted, it means you are deeply in love with this person._
> 
> See you next chapter.  
> Tumblr is @misplaced-my-notes


	11. Dearly Departed and Deceived

Thomas woke with Virgil sitting at his desk. He’s only ever woken up with Dee at his desk. Granted, it was only once. But it made an impression. Dee had greeted him with a smug smile. Virgil didn’t even look him in the eye.

He’d found an American quarter on Thomas’s desk and was currently flipping it over his fingers. Thomas didn’t sit up. He just watched the silver twist and turn while Virgil made a deep, thoughtful face. 

“You know,” Virgil muttered, speaking low and careful in the early evening quiet. “Remus brought something up the other day.”

“Remus brings a lot of things up.”

Virgil smiled that half smile where he ducked his chin. He looked very small where he sat hunched over on the chair, but his smile made him look more like an imp than a gargoyle. He looked away again, the coin dancing over his knuckles as he thought out loud. “He brought up… dying. Living without Dee… must’ve been hard.”

“He didn’t do it for long,” Thomas said as he sat up and pushed back the blankets. “His death was recorded four days after Dee was killed.”

Virgil’s eyes flickered around the room, like there were memories there and he needed to pin them down. He brought his eyes back to the coin. “Wonder if Dee had to watch him struggle. If he saw Remus’s last days.”

Thomas looked at him for a while. He saw the curiosity… but also the anxiety. The _uncertainty._ Thomas slung his legs over the bed. “Did you watch Patton? Where you there?”

Virgil didn’t look at him. “I was there.”

Thomas felt his stomach turn a bit, more from anxiety than confusion. “Dee said… he said that you died five years before Patton.”

“Almost five and a half. Yes.”

“So, you watched him?” Thomas asked, “For _five years?”_

Virgil looked up at him with troubled eyes. “I was afraid to leave him. If I left him… I didn’t know if I’d be able to find him again. And then he was gone… and everything went… distant. And then…” he went a little hazy, like corporeality was a friend he didn’t know well. Then he came back. “Then I heard him calling for me.”

“And you came here,” Thomas said. Virgil nodded, and Thomas let out a long breath. “That’s… that’s pretty intense. Was it hard?”

Virgil blinked. “What?”

“Was it hard? Watching him live without you?”

Virgil shifted where he sat, flipping the coin over his fingers again. It seemed like a nervous tick. He’d probably like fidget toys. Virgil sighed, and Thomas snapped back to attention. “We had eight good years together. I’m grateful for what we had. But… I think… it was hard watching my daughter grow up without me. I’m happy she was happy! But… I wished. I was there.”

“I bet,” Thomas said dumbly. He wasn’t sure what else to say. Virgil went quiet, thinking of something that had happened long, long ago. Thomas worried his hands together. “Does Patton know that it bothers you?”

Virgil laughed, a soft breathy sound in the quiet room. “He knows. We’ve talked about it. I just… I think about it sometimes. The times I wasn’t able to be there.”

“I’m sure they thought of you,” Thomas said gently. Virgil didn’t look at him. “They had to miss you.”

“I know,” Virgil murmured. “I know.”

+++++

“Yes. Good. _Very_ good,” Logan sat with Clara, an eye on her stitching as she worked with a smile on her face. Patton stepped through the door just in time for Logan to raise his head and announce, “Mr. Moore, your daughter has a knack for sutures.”

Clara beamed and held up a cloth with three straight lines of stitches. “Ta-da!”

“Oh!” Patton said, a little at a loss for what to say. Sutures? Patton favored traditional embroidery, himself. “Are you doing to be a doctor, little duck?”

Clara got a sparkle in her eye. Patton nearly sighed; he _knew_ that look. She was intrigued, and very little could stop Clara when she was _interested_ in something. Clara looked at Logan. “Do you think a girl could be a doctor, Dr. Stein?”

Logan adjusted his glasses. “I think, practically speaking, a lady could do anything a man could. Save a few things.”

Clara bounced in her seat with a smile. “Father! Dr. Stein says I’ll be a doctor!”

Logan made a face as he stood and took his jacket from the back of the chair. “I said you _could_. Potentially. In _theory_ , Miss Moore.” He looked at Patton. “If that’s all you needed.”

Patton nodded and set his parcel of papers on the table. “Thank you for sitting with her.”

Logan nodded as he buttoned his coat. “She’s fifteen years old, Mr. Moore. Having someone _sit with her_ while you speak with the bank is a bit…”

“I know,” Patton admitted, glancing over to where Clara practiced her stitching. “I know. But… whenever I went to work on my family’s business, she would go to the shop. But Virgil isn’t there anymore and… and the shop... isn’t…”

“Please,” Logan held up a hand. “It’s alright.”

Patton worried his hands together, his fingers working at the buttons of his coat as he laughed uneasily. “I… I keep thinking he’ll come through the door. That he’ll… he’ll laugh and kiss me good morning, just like he used to.” Logan said nothing. His expression was pained. Patton looked at the floor. “But he’s not. He’s not… he’s not coming back.”

Patton had to remind himself each morning. Each night. Whenever he looked at the door. Whenever Clara called for Virgil, paused, and got that sad, sorry look on her face. Whenever he went to bed, feeling that cold, empty space on the mattress next to him. He’s not coming back. _He’s not coming back._

“Mr. Moore,” Logan said gently, a hand reaching out to touch his arm. “Patton, are you… are you alright?”

“What? Yes. Yes? Of course,” Patton laughed, his hands clenched tightly as he smiled. “Just. Thinking.”

Logan looked at him for a long while. “I know your pain, Mr. Moore. No smile can hide it.”

“I can try,” Patton said desperately. Logan stared at him. Those eyes no longer shined the way they used to. Ever since Roman passed away, Logan had become more and more dull and lifeless. Even now, he stood before Patton with eyes of tarnished silver. Patton smiled listlessly. “I... I have to _try_. To smile. For Clara.”

Logan didn’t respond. He didn’t _have_ anyone to try for. He simply stood, quiet and empty. He must miss Roman. He had to miss him the same way Patton missed Virgil. It ached. It was a deep stain in them and neither of them could scrub it away. Out, out, damn spot…

But the pain remained.

Patton smiled. Logan stared. Then, he tipped his hat and looked at Clara. “Good afternoon, Miss Moore.”

Clara smiled and looked up from her sewing. “Good afternoon, Dr. Stein!”

“Call on me again,” Logan said to Patton, “Should you need someone to… sit with her.”

“Thank you,” Patton said with a shaking, watery smile. “Thank you.”

Logan said nothing more. He tipped his hat again and slipped out the door. Within moments, he was gone, and Patton was left looking at a closed door. Wishing. Hoping against logic and reason. Shaking and holding his breath. But he knew the truth. He knew that when the door opened, Virgil wouldn’t — couldn’t — step through. 

_He’s not coming back._

+++++

Clara’s hands were shaking. Patton could feel it against the crook of his arm. He took her hand and squeezed her fingers. “It’s alright. You’re going to be fine. You look beautiful.”

Clara stood in her wedding dress. It had been Patton’s mother’s dress once, with layers of thin, delicate fabric that swished and fluttered when she moved. The lace gloves on her fingers itched against Patton’s wrist when she grabbed at him, but he didn’t pull away. She needed him. Clara looked up at him with wide eyes. Did she want to run? Patton would let her. She was young. Only eighteen years old. Perhaps marriage had come too soon. If she wanted to run, he’d take her away. Far away to the sea where she would be free and wild. She looked at him.

“What if he doesn’t love me?” She asked in a shaking, shuddering voice. “I love him. I love him _so much.”_ She squeezed Patton’s hand and he softened under that nervous gaze. “What if he doesn’t…”

“He does,” Patton reassured her. He’d seen Fredrick fall in love with his daughter. He’d seen the bewildered, awed look in his young eyes. He’d listened to the boy compliment her on her dedication to medical school. He’d received letters from Clara, stating her interest in young Fredrick. He was a good man. Respectable and kind. Too soft to be a lawyer, but smart enough to be a teacher. He would take good care of Clara. “He loves you, darling. I don’t doubt it.”

Clara still trembled, tugging at the chiffon veil and touching a hand to her pinned-up curls. “At times like this… I wonder what Papa would think.”

Patton gritted his teeth and forced a smile. Virgil wasn’t here. If he was, they’d bicker over who could walk Clara down the aisle. Surely, they would laugh and debate and Virgil would smile. He’d smile that perfect, crooked grin and Patton would _melt_ because he _missed him so…_

Taking Clara’s hands, Patton turned her and looked at her gently. “My darling girl… if my Virgil were here, he’d be shining with pride. He’d see the life you’ve started. The path you’ve taken. And he’d be beaming. Look at you… a grown woman.” Clara shook, but didn’t tear her eyes away. “Clara… if he were here, he would be so… so _incredibly_ proud,” his voice was cracking, but he smiled. He smiled and Clara struggled to keep her composure. “Because he loved you so, so, so much. If my Virgil were here,” he said, his voice catching and chest twisting painfully. “If… if my Virgil were here—"

“Stop,” Clara whispered. She tucked herself into Patton’s arms. “Stop. Please. I miss him. _I miss him,_ and I need to walk down the aisle.”

“He’ll be watching,” Patton assured her. “He’s going to see you walk down the aisle and he’ll smile down at you…”

Clara shivered and squeezed him tighter. “I wish he was here. I wish…”

“So do I,” Patton said. The church bells waited. They took a moment, breathing deep and relaxing while they had the chance. Then, Clara gathered herself, put her arm in Patton’s, and squared her shoulders. Patton raised his chin. “Shall we, little duck?”

“Into the fray,” she nodded with a watery smile. He patted her hand. “If I trip, hold me up.”

“You’re not so clumsy,” Patton said, the ache in his chest still prominent and hurting. Still, he smiled. “If anything, _I’ll_ trip.”

“Poor thing,” Clara said with a smile. “We’ll hold each other up.”

He looked at her. Her shining veil and delicate jewels around her neck. The wedding dress that his own mother handed to her. The lace of her gloves and the steel in her eyes. He smiled, and his heart still ached.

“I’m in excellent hands.”

+++++

Patton pulled the knot of his cravat, smoothing out the white fabric as he looked at himself in a small, tabletop mirror. There was smoke behind the glass, tired and dark from years of use. Patton saw the gray in his hair, peppered through caramel brown and bright, white hairs that had sprouted from _nowhere_. He saw the wrinkles around his eyes from years of smiling, and his freckles seemed more prominent against his skin where he stood. He felt _old_.

He went through his morning routine; making himself tea, answering correspondence, listening to the deafening _silence_ of an empty house… Clara had moved into her husband's home nearly a month ago. They seemed happy. She told him she was cared for and content… but she still seemed so young. Eighteen years wasn’t an uncommon age for a young lady to be married. But Patton still saw that little girl cowering in the corner of the orphanage. He still saw Clara’s wide, frightened eyes. She was still his little girl.

And now she was gone, all grown up and living her own life. He just wanted her to be happy. And that involved him sitting with his hands in his lap as he looked across the table at the empty seat. Virgil, he thought, _Virgil_ … he’d been gone for almost five years. Had it truly been that long? It felt like he was just there yesterday, leaning close to kiss Patton before he went to work. Just the night before, they were tangled in the sheets. Only a moment ago, he was in the other room, calling for Patton. Saying his name with that fond, exasperated tone. 

Patton took a shuddering breath. They didn’t get enough time with one another. There wasn’t enough time to… to really _love_ and _tell_ him everything. Patton fidgeted with his sleeves. He felt restless. He felt lonely. The deep, aching kind of lonely that made something molten but barbed tangle around inside his chest. He wanted to run away from the house. To throw himself into the sea and beg for Virgil to come back from The Beyond. To ask a medium to summon him and tell him anything… _anything_ that meant Virgil was still there.

But he wasn’t. Patton knew he wasn’t. So, he answered his correspondence. His tea went cold. His eyes were starting to get worse, and things started to blur on pages if he wasn’t careful. He was getting old… and he didn’t even get to grow old with Virgil. Patton gasped, taking a shuddery breath and sitting back as his eyes watered. He wasn’t going to cry. He’d already cried enough. Hadn’t he? God, he missed Virgil. He missed him and missed him… but it wouldn’t bring him back. Patton took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes to no avail. 

Then the front door _clicked_ and opened, and a soft voice called, “Father? Are you here?”

Patton put his glasses back on and smothered his discomfort as he stood. “Clara? I’m in the dining room, little duck.”

Clara’s laugh was bright and cheerful as she stepped into the doorway. She wore a new dress today, a pale blue that complimented her eyes. Her hair was pinned back delicately. She nearly shined where she stood, and Patton smiled warmly at her. She picked up the sides of her dress and fluttered them a bit. “You know I’m not so little anymore.”

“You’ll always be my little duck.” He took her into a hug, and she squeezed him tight, like she hadn’t seen him in a long, long time. He laughed a bit, kissing her hair before he said, “What’s wrong, love? You saw me just yesterday.”

“I know.” Clara stepped back and touched the empty seat at the table. Virgil’s seat. She chewed her lip a bit. “I know. But I _worry_ about you… all alone in this big house.”

“I’m alright,” he promised, a sweet tasting lie that came with a smile. Clara looked at him, all sharp eyes and wary disbelief. He softened, but his smile never wavered. “Clara, I’m _fine_. I miss him. I’ll always miss him. But I’m alright.”

Clara nodded and took his arm. He quirked an eyebrow, but allowed her to tote him out of the dining room and through the house. “Sometimes I worry,” she said in a quiet voice. “That I’ll forget him. I remember him, of course, but…” she trailed off, a little troubled by this admission.

“He’s up in the clouds,” Patton promised. “Looking down on you right now. I’m sure he’s proud.”

Clara laughed and leaned her head against Patton’s shoulder as they went into the living room. “You said the same thing on my wedding day.”

“And I meant it. I’m sure he’s there.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course!” Patton laughed brightly as he sat her down on the sofa. He looked at her for a moment with her hands in her lap and her cheeks round and pink. He cocked his head and slowly sat down — his back had been bothering him. “Wearing a new rouge?” Clara blinked and put a hand to her cheek, confused, and Patton smiled. “You’re practically glowing.”

“Oh.” Clara’s hands went back down to her lap and she looked at her knees. “Actually, that’s… it’s why I came to see you today.”

Patton chuckled uneasily. “Not because you missed me?” Clara smiled politely, but she still looked anxious. Patton’s smile fell. More makeup… was she covering something? Patton’s stomach suddenly hurt. “Darling. Is… is Fredrick treating you well?”

Clara’s eyes went wide. “Is he…?”

“He isn’t mistreating you, is he?” Patton stood up, a frightening bolt of anger coursing through him. “No man is about to lay a hand on _my daughter and_ —"

“My god— Father, sit down. If you get so worked up, you’ll hurt yourself—"

Patton looked at her. “You can tell me, Clara. Is he hurting you?”

“No, of course not—"

“Is he _shouting_ at you?”

_“No!_ Just let me _—_ "

“Then why—"

“Father!” She shouted, reaching out to take his arms and hold him in place. “I’m _pregnant.”_

Patton went stone-still. Pregnant. Clara? His little girl. With a child. A whole other child… just like that. They’d hardly been married for four months. And Patton suddenly felt very old again; he would be a _grandfather._ He looked at her, seeing the anxiety in her brown eyes glittering as she held his arms. Then, he touched her arms, the two of them holding one another in place.

“Really?” He asked, soft and unsure. She smiled. She was _happy._ And she nodded. Patton gripped her arms, staring at her in awed, startled excitement. “ _Really?”_

Clara laughed breathlessly as she touched a hand to her belly. _“Yes_. I wanted to be sure… so I saw Dr. Stein and he said I’m a few weeks along. I… I wanted to tell you, so I—" she was cut off when Patton took her into his arms and held her right.

“Oh, _congratulations!_ Oh, Clara…”

She laughed again, a little shaky as she hugged him back. “I’m… I’m a bit nervous, I’ll admit! I don’t know if I’ll be a good mother…”

He stepped back to cup her cheeks and look her in the eye. “You’ll be wonderful, darling. Just wonderful. You’re a good girl. Smart and kind. You’ll be a good mother.” Clara’s eyes shone with tears and Patton kissed her forehead before pulling her back into a hug. “It’s alright. I’ll be here to help.”

“I’ll need you,” she said, her voice quivering as she held him tight. “I… I wish Papa were here. I wish I could tell him.”

Patton felt a jolt of pain in his chest that cut deep. It hurt to think of him. To think of what he was missing. Patton closed his eyes. “He knows, darling. I’m sure he knows.”

+++++

The sky was black as pitch. Clara had gone into labor early in the evening. Now, the world had gone black and cold with night. She screamed and cried, and Patton wanted to make it all better… but he couldn’t. He was exiled to the hall with Fredrick as Logan helped her through the birth.

After four hours of labor, it was over. Just like that. Logan stepped out of the room with a baby in his arms, a crying, wailing little thing. He wiped away the blood. Clara held her baby for the first time. And then the anxiety and tension released like a taught cable being snapped. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The baby was born. Clara was fine. Patton nearly collapsed where he’d been standing in the hall with Fredrick.

Logan stepped out of the room again, the baby bundled in his arms. “Congratulations,” he told Fredrick with a tired expression. “You’re now the father of a baby girl.”

Fredrick’s eyes went wide as he took the child into his arms. He was a bit awkward, holding her like a fragile little egg. She didn’t cry anymore. She wriggled and cooed… and Fredrick smiled at her. He was taken in a heartbeat. Patton smiled. Then Fredrick turned to him, handing over the baby with a trusting smile that shook only a little. 

“Please,” he said without thought. “I want to check on Clara.”

Patton was shaking, his fingers trembling as he adjusted the swaddled bundle in his arms. Patton laughed breathlessly, staring at a little head of gold-spun curls. All of the sudden… it felt _real._ A _granddaughter_. A little baby, there in his arms. According to Logan, Clara had fallen asleep shortly after the birth. Patton couldn’t blame her. The labor was difficult and painful… and now Fredrick sat with her, holding her hand and kissing her knuckles while she slept. And Patton held her baby.

He went to his armchair (the armchair in Fredrick’s house that had been dubbed ‘Father’s Chair’ when Patton sat there) and he rocked this tiny, wiggly baby. She was so _quiet,_ staring up at him with idle curiosity. She hummed a bit, her big brown eyes staring up at him… and Patton smiled. He touched her soft, pink cheek.

“Look at you,” he whispered as if it were a secret. “Look at how beautiful you are!” The baby cooed, and Patton sat back, cradling her to his heart. “I wonder what she’ll name you. Something elegant. Sometime strong. Do you know?” He asked those big brown eyes. “You have a _wonderful_ mother. She was so excited to see you. You met… just briefly.”

Clara had held her baby, kissed her soft skin, laughed and cried… Patton was proud. Proud but shaking. It was a whole new life, right there in his arms. Patton’s chest ached. He wished Virgil could see this. He wished Virgil was here to fret over Clara and her baby… he wished he could see Virgil with gray in his hair and those wrinkles of smiles around his eyes. He wished… and it hurt. It hurt more often, now. Deep in his chest. Logan said it was exhaustion. Logan said it was age. Logan said a lot of things.

Logan didn’t smile anymore.

Patton sighed and rocked the baby, listening to her hum and feeling her wriggle in her swaddling blanket. He adjusted his hold, patting the blankets with a smile. “Sweet little thing… are you sweet? I bet you are. Just a little lump of sugar. That’s you.” The baby hummed again, and Patton chuckled. “You’ll be wild, like your mother. Bright and warm. You’ll be so smart, I know it. Just like her.” He saw those eyes and softened. “But gentle. Like Fredrick. I can see it.”

Patton felt that familiar bolt of pain in his chest. He winced and stood, trying to walk off the discomfort as he took each step slowly. He swayed a bit when he walked, and the baby gargled and mumbled… Patton winced again. The pain felt sharper. His arms felt tired, like he’d twisted his shoulder wrong. He went back to the room where Clara laid, seeing Logan pulling up the blankets and putting away his tools. Fredrick shook his hand and thanked him… and smiled at Patton.

“She’s wonderful,” Patton said with a smile. Fredrick gingerly held out his arms and the baby was transferred between them. Patton brushed his fingers through the wispy curls of golden hair on the baby’s head. He smiled at Fredrick and saw him glowing with pride. “A perfect little girl.”

“Of course she is. A little miracle,” Fredrick laughed and swayed. He would be a doting father. Patton could already tell. She had this man wrapped around her little finger.

Again, the pain flickered through Patton’s chest. He flinched, holding a hand to his sternum. Logan glanced at him.

“Everything alright, Mr. Moore?”

“Fine,” Patton said softly. “Just fine. Just a stitch.” He went to Clara’s bedside, kissed her forehead, and sat back to see her smiling up at him. “You did _very well,_ little duck. She’s beautiful.”

Clara still looked half-awake as she whispered, “She’s alright? She has everything? All her fingers and toes?”

“Two brown eyes and a cute button nose,” Patton said with a grin. Virgil would’ve said something. Virgil would’ve— Patton let out an aching breath and pasted that smile back onto his face. “You should be _very_ proud.”

Clara touched his arm. “Are you alright?”

“Am _I_ —dearest, you just gave _birth_. Are _you_ alright?”

Clara made a face. “Odd question. Ask me tomorrow.”

Patton smiled and kissed her forehead again. “Get some rest. It’s late.”

“The baby—"

“I have her,” Fredrick said, his arms safe and warm around the baby. He was a staunch protector. Ready to fight the world if anyone tried to take her. “Get some sleep, darling.”

Patton stepped back and Clara reached for him. “Father… Father, come see me tomorrow. Come back.”

“I’d never miss the chance to see my new grandchild,” Patton said indulgingly. His chest hurt. He wished Virgil was there. He couldn’t even remember what it felt like to hold him. He smiled. “Go to sleep, little duck. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Patton and Logan left the house together. Logan tipped his hat, walking off into the night without so much as a goodbye. It was the last time Logan would see Patton alive. 

Patton went home. He felt the shuddering ache in his chest. Pins and needles in left arm. Patton stumbled in the doorway of his bedroom. He felt his heart thudding madly in his ears. He clutched at his chest with one hand and held onto the doorway with the other; he couldn’t breathe. Dizziness came with a force. He heard something… Virgil? Virgil, calling his name. Frightened. Alarmed.

Patton Moore crumbled to the ground. He didn’t get back up.

+++++

Virgil was at Thomas’s desk, flipping a coin between his fingers. Thomas could see the silver under his skin, the dark discoloration under his fingernails. It looked painful… but could a ghost feel pain? He wasn’t sure. Virgil flipped the coin.

“If I could’ve said something to them,” he murmured, “If I could’ve… given some _sign_ that I was there…”

“Patton believed you were,” Thomas said gently. Virgil looked at him, his gray eyes shingling oddly in the light of the desk lamp. Thomas smiled. “He believed you were there.”

As if on command, Patton appeared in the doorway, a troubled look on his face as he glanced between Virgil and Thomas. “I hope I’m not interrupting… but… did you call for me?”

Virgil stopped flipping the coin in his hand with a smile. “No. But you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Patton laughed brightly, the lamplight reflecting off his glasses. “Am I?”

Apparently, story time was over. Virgil stood and put his hands on Patton’s hips, pushing him backwards and out into the hall. Patton stumbled back with a scandalized giggle while Virgil said, “Now I’ve got you and I’m not letting go!”

Thomas only heard Patton laugh: “That’s all I’ve ever wanted!” And then they were gone.

Thomas sighed and sat back, leaning against the wall with his laptop on his legs. It sure was a lot of information… and it all _meant_ something… but it wasn’t going to bring back Roman Kingsley. This didn’t make the information unimportant. In fact, he felt like he knew Patton a bit better. And Clara, too. But his real study had been on Roman Kingsley himself.

Right on cue, Remus stepped into the office and dropped himself in Thomas’s desk chair with a dramatic sigh. _“Why,”_ he said darkly, “Do you insist on writing in this teeny tiny room?”

“You want to go to the dining room?”

Remus stood up and shook his head. “I simply think that the story of my little brother deserves a more _elegant_ setting.”

“So, you want to go to the dining room.” Remus ignored him and paced the floor.

“Somewhere large and expansive. Where the walls hold art that is _meaningful_ to him…”

Thomas stood and went downstairs with Remus on his heels. “So… the dining room.”

Remus slapped Thomas on the back and laughed a wild laugh. “What a suggestion! Maybe you aren’t so hopeless, boy.”

With a tired roll of his eyes, Thomas sat at the table and adjusted his laptop. Remus fell into a chair and slung a leg over one of the armrests. Dee watched with a half-interested eyebrow raise.

“Now!” Remus said as he slapped the tabletop (really, he slapped the plexiglass _on top_ of the tabletop). Then, he pointed at the double doors of the dining room, the ones that swung shut after someone entered. “It was on a hot summer day that Roman barged into the house without warning. He flamed like Icarus, too hot and too close to what he wanted, burned by love and all the more bitter for it!”

Dee narrowed his eyes. “When… was this…?”

Remus waved at him. “You remember, you remember… It was the afternoon I did that public reading for him. Roman charged in, threw open the doors and said—"

The doors slammed open. Everyone jumped and Thomas turned in his chair to see _Roman Kingsley_ in the doorway, his expression tortured and dizzy against his pale face as he cried, _“He’s moved on!_ I’m nothing but a scar in the sand, lost under the waves!”

Just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone. Vanished into thin air as the doors swung back and forth before settling back into stillness. For a while, everyone was quiet, staring at the place where Roman had been. Thomas was shaking. 

It was Roman. It was really him. The one that started it all. The one that made Thomas want to become a historian. He saw the curl of his hair, the same as all the elegantly painted portraits that Remus had done. His vest was embroidered and elegant. He had the air of an aristocrat, even if he had only been there for a split moment. It was Roman Kingsley in the flesh… or rather, in spirit.

Slowly, Thomas turned back around in his seat. Remus was staring at the doorway with wide, owlish eyes. He didn’t look away. It was like he was waiting for Roman to reappear. But he didn’t. Dee squinted at the door, his finger tapping at his chin as he thought. Thomas squirmed.

“You guys… you guys didn’t do that, did you?”

“No,” Remus breathed as he untangled himself from his chair and stood. He stepped forward a bit, like he could go to the door and forcefully _tug_ Roman back onto the mortal plane. He stopped, went back, and sat himself down again. “If I could have just _brought him back,_ I would’ve done it already.”

“Fascinating that he appeared when you were describing such an important turning point,” Dee said as he continued to squint at the double doors. “I see he still has a flair for the dramatic, just like you.”

“Just like— excuse you, he _got_ his dramatic flair from me,” Remus snapped. “Like a proper little brother taking after a good example. And he was _here,”_ Remus’s voice turned soft as he glanced at the door again with a wide-eyed, happy look. “He was _here_. I saw him. Dee, he’s… he could come back.” Dee didn’t respond. He narrowed his eyes, and Remus tapped his hands against the table again. “Thomas. _Thomas._ ”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Remus grinned wildly. “Start writing then! It was a hot afternoon! Sunlight danced through the leaves and stuck in the air, and Roman was down with a fever. He had a poetry reading to do. And me, being a good brother, was happy to step-in on his behalf…”

+++++

Against his pillow, Roman groaned and kicked his blankets away. “I’m on _fire_ , Remus. It’s too hot. Why is summer so damn _hot?”_

“Because it’s _summer._ Are you a dolt? You’re acting like one.”

Roman glared at him and threw an arm over his eyes. “Go away and bring back Andréa. He’s nicer about these things.”

Standing at the mirror, Remus flinched and hissed when he cut himself. He licked the blood from his lip and shook the foam from the shaving blade. “Dee _coddles_ you. There’s a difference.”

“ _Patton_ coddles. Andréa is just nice. And sympathetic.” Roman coughed a bit and Remus paused, glancing at him in the mirror and relaxing only when Roman laid back down with an exhausted sigh. “You probably forgot what sympathy is.”

Remus snorted and wiped off his face. As soon as it was gone, he always missed his mustache. Dee was in for a surprise when Remus came home. He turned and threw the damp towel at Roman. “Dee doesn’t _sympathize_. Dee _pities_ you.”

Roman only laughed at that while he moaned, “Woe is me.”

“Where’s your shoe polish?”

“Hmm? Somewhere in the cabinet.” Roman coughed again, a rattling one that made Remus wince. He sighed again. “I feel dizzy.”

“It’s the dizziness,” Remus said unhelpfully. Roman snickered. With a bit of finessing, Remus took the small dish of shoe polish and worked a bit through the white streak in his hair, turning it brown as he combed through the locks. In thirty seconds, his hair was completely brown, and he had become Roman Kingsley. He washed his hands off and went rummaging through Roman’s closet. “What were you planning to wear? I want to wear something worse. That way everyone will think you’re a slob.”

“I’m going to tell Mummy.”

Remus glanced back at him and raised an eyebrow. “Are you dying?”

Roman clutched his chest dramatically. “I might be…! Yes! I can see it! The light! The light is…” he paused, staring up at the ceiling for a long while. Then he said, “I think I’m hallucinating. Because I can hear Dr. Stein calling for me.”

(Dr. Stein was across town, minding his own business and most definitely _not_ calling for Roman at the time.)

“Audible hallucinations?” Remus asked as he tossed a couple articles of clothing onto the floor. “Is that possible?”

“I’m not certain.” Roman smiled and closed his eyes. “Oh, but he said my _name_ …”

_“Ugh_ , you’re _disgustingly_ in love. Go bury yourself in St. James.”

Roman waved a limp hand. “Will do. Let me die first.”

Remus put on Roman’s red vest. The embroidered one that he wore on special occasions like meetings or poetry readings. Remus grimaced as he did up the buttons. He _hated_ buttoning up vests. It was so _restricting_ ; almost like a corset, but with less patriarchal demands. Either way, he buttoned himself up, smoothed the vest — it was a little tight. Weren’t he and Roman the same size? Had Roman lost weight? — and he huffed.

“Alright. I’m off to slander your good name.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” Roman sat up, almost looking like he was about to stop Remus. He stood, wobbled, and sat back down. He looked more than a little off kilter. “Or maybe… maybe we should all hold still. Stop tilting.”

Remus stepped close and handed Roman the glass of water on the bedside table. “It’s hot. You should rest.”

“But—" Roman took the glass after some prompting, draining it before looking at Remus helplessly. “But, my reading—"

“I’ll do it. I’ve done it before. Relax. Get some sleep. Lay back and think of Dr. Stein.” Romans’ flushed face burned a little darker and Remus snorted. “I meant _rest,_ but you’ll be alone for the rest of the afternoon. Do whatever you wish.” 

Roman swatted at him. “Get away from me!”

Remus laughed and bounced to the door. “Who knows! Maybe I’ll send Dr. Stein to check on you.”

Roman pulled his blankets up to his chest like a scandalized heroine trying to cover her exposed skin. “You wouldn’t dare. I don’t need bloodletting or medicine; it’s just a fever!”

Remus stared at him, unimpressed by the excuse. “You’ve called on him before when you didn’t need him. And _besides_ , I’m _you_ today! Anything can happen.”

“Leave my doctor alone.”

“ _Your—_ oh _ho_ , so he’s _your_ doctor now. I see, I see…”

Roman threw a pillow at him and cried in a hoarse voice, “Get out!”

Remus laughed and ducked out the door. “I’m off to your reading! Wish me luck!”

“Break a leg!”

Remus paused in the doorway and looked down at his legs. He knew the phrase, but it made him think… he’d never broken one before. “Which one?”

_“Remus.”_

With a wicked laugh, Remus straightened his collar and smoothed his hair. It was time to play the part. He put on Roman’s hat and coat, patting the book of poetry waiting in the pocket. With a smile, he stepped outside and called through the door, “I’ll be off! Rest well!”

Romans’ response was a distant and emphatic, “ _Please_ don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Remus closed the door, set his hat at an ungentlemanly tilt, and grinned. “We’ll see.”

+++++

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Remus could be polite when he desired. He knew how to emulate Roman’s mannerisms and smiles. They had grown up together, after all. They learned the same manners and rules. Remus chose to ignore them. Remus didn’t care for limits.

Roman, however, found solace in them. It was a frustrating fact of the matter. Roman found an elegant comfort in the lines drawn by society. He pined and swooned and repressed… Remus reached out and snatched whatever he wanted from thin air. It was how he became an artist. How he took Dee in the gardens. How he became _‘Miss Dee.’_

Yes, Remus was a wildcard while Roman was the safe Ace of Hearts. Win or lose, black or red… the shape was still special. Rare. Pleasing to the eye. Did this mean anything while Remus stood before a crowd of nobility in the park, reciting poetry that he knew by heart? No, not in particular. It was simply what went through Remus’s mind as he performed Roman’s work.

He loved his brother. Of course he did. But at the same time… why did Roman hesitate when it came to what he wanted? If Remus could be polite… if Remus could be _Roman_ for a few hours… couldn’t Roman be Remus? Couldn’t he be bold and wild? Probably. Their acting skills were on par with one another. Roman could wear a devilish grin just like Remus. He could jump his doctor and ruck up his crisp and clean buttoned-up person without issue.

But he _wouldn’t_ because he was _Roman_ and Roman was irritatingly _respectful._ Remus digressed. He was halfway through some ridiculous poem. It was some sort of sonnet, all longing and desperate. _Very_ Roman. Then he saw something wonderful.

He saw Dr. Stein. It seemed he’d been walking somewhere, heard Roman’s voice (Remus’s inflection was _flawless)_ and meandered over. A moth to a flame. The doctor was at the back of the crowd, lingering on the outside of the interaction with sharp, intelligent eyes. 

Remus grinned madly. He could do this _easily_. Especially with Roman’s poetry. He looked at Logan and he _swore_ their eyes met. He held that gaze. _“Oh, but what artistry is the object of a man’s desire! What folly. What muse._

_The statue of David leans toward his artist. The Birth of Venus is beautiful and shameless_

_This art is a sham to you, a sham to your stardust and sunlight.”_

He looked at Logan, seeing the flustered part of his lips. The captivated catch of his breath. Remus felt anxious; he was playing Roman’s part. He had to make this genuine. So, he put a hand to his heart and dug into the fabric a bit. He lowered his head and spoke in a low, desperate tone that he knew very well.

_“Love of mine… were I to touch you, would you turn to nothing but seafoam? Were I to kiss your hand,”_ he looked up, a slight smile on his lips as he caught Logan again. _“Would you fade into starlight?_

_For what a man fears most in the depths of love...”_ he said, his breath catching. Logan caught with him, holding his breath as he waited for the last, fateful words. Remus licked his lips, hearing the lovesick twitters of the ladies in front of him, the marveled voices of the crowd, and Logan. He saw Logan in love with his brother’s words. Hanging on each line. Remus smiled, aiming to hit that helpless expression that Roman always wore. 

With the way Logan Stein flushed and swallowed thickly, Remus reasoned that he _nailed it._

_“What a man fears most in the depths of love,”_ he said again, hardly more than a whisper. _“Is that it will be gone… but in an instant.”_

Ladies cooed and clapped politely, and more than a few of them giggled breathlessly and leaned into one another as they looked at him. They _kept_ looking at him, but he didn’t care. He saw the way Logan blinked rapidly and averted his eyes, like he was ashamed to be staring. It was equal parts adorable and infuriating. If this was how he behaved with Roman, how did _Roman_ feel about it? Was he just as irritated? Did he feel that clutch in his stomach? Remus’s nose wrinkled. This was ridiculous.

Stepping down from the small platform that had been set for him, Remus smiled Roman’s smile and shook the hands of many a gentleman. Ladies reached out to touch his arm and sleeve, like they needed to caress him to truly absorb the poetry. With that _polite_ tilt of his chin, Remus held out a _polite_ hand to Logan and smiled. _Politely._

“Dr. Stein,” he said with Roman’s smooth, confident voice. Logan took his hand and shook it. He looked hungry. But not for food. Remus’s smile widened. “What a pleasant surprise. Do you often listen to poetry in the park?”

Logan worked his jaw for a moment, like he had to chew his words before he spoke. “I simply saw a crowd. It’s natural for a man to be curious.”

Remus couldn’t stop himself from smiling wryly. “ _Curious_ indeed.”

Logan visibly flinched, glancing at the crowd around them before he said. “Mr.… ah, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Doctor?”

Logan twitched, like he was _waiting_ for something… then looked at Remus closely. “That last poem you recited.”

Remus crossed his arms over his chest… and then regretted it. The tight waistcoat pulled taught around his middle and he had to hold his breath. Even so, he smiled. “Did you enjoy it, Dr. Stein? It’s one of my favorites.” A lie. He despised Roman’s achy, wobbly-knees poetry. Write about _sex_ and _flesh_ , and you would have Remus’s attention. He bounced on his heels and grinned. “I saw you and thought you might like it.”

“I… I…” Logan stopped and started a few times, his face flushing when he avoided Remus’s eye. When he came back to Remus, his eyes had sharpened as he worried his hands together. “Mr. Kingsley.”

“Yes.”

“Do… are you— I mean to say...”

“ _Yes?”_

Logan paused, frowned, and adjusted his glasses. Remus grimaced; he didn’t like that look. He _really_ didn’t like when Logan blinked slowly and said, “ _Remus?”_

Ah. So, the jig was up. Damn the doctor, being smart and observant. Remus wanted to kick him. But he couldn’t because he was playing Roman. He smiled thinly. “You’re smarter than you look.”

Logan took a step back, like the intimate closeness of them was suddenly unwelcome. Remus grinned; this man loved his brother and was stupidly obvious. How had they not shagged each other senseless yet?

“You— I— what on _earth_ —"

Remus reached out to grasp Logan’s wrist, holding tight with that soft, fond smile. “Read a room, Doctor. No need to cause a scene.”

Logan stared at him. “Do you… do you take Roman’s place... often?”

Remus shrugged and ignored the dreamy looks that several ladies sent him as he adjusted his footing in the grass. “Oh… sometimes. My brother _is_ sickly. He can’t always attend these readings. So I do them for him. It earns him some patronage.”

“Patronage,” Logan repeated dubiously. Remus smiled.

“You _do_ know an artist can’t just skirt by without money. There is rent to pay, and paper isn’t free. Performances like this make men curious and ladies go all aflutter.” Remus shrugged and smiled. A few ladies giggled and whispered to each other. “They act as patrons, eagerly awaiting his next painting or poem.”

Logan hummed and gave Remus a long look. “So, you _lie_ … and pretend to be your brother.”

Remus snorted, forgetting himself for a moment, and then let out a breathy chuckle. “Lying? Oh, Doctor… truth is relative. Who’s to say who I am? Who you are?”

Logan raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Logic. _Logic_ and _reason_ say.”

“And who’s to say I’m alive? What man or beast tells me the muscles under the flesh are alive with blood and fire?”

“Science,” Logan said bluntly. Remus twitched and reeled himself back in. He was _Roman._ At least for the afternoon. Logan still looked unimpressed. “The more I hear of poetry, the more superfluous it seems.”

Remus held a hand to his chest and let out another laugh. The one that Roman used when he was more amused than irritated. “Oh, you _wound_ me…” he glanced at Logan, seeing those sharp eyes watching him closely. He smiled. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s startling,” Logan murmured, like he didn’t know he was speaking. “How well you can perform your brothers’ every move.”

“Oh,” Remus smiled. “You haven’t seen Roman. He can be just as wicked as I am.”

“I… don’t doubt it,” Logan sounded like he was speaking around a numb tongue. He shook himself out of it, highly aware of the people standing near them. Remus wouldn’t be able to keep the doctor to himself for long. “You said your brother is ill. I was unaware of this.”

Remus didn’t smile. “Well. You’re a busy man. Surely, you must have missed his request to see you yesterday.”

Logan’s eyes flickered away. So, he _hadn’t_ missed it. He’d ignored it. Remus watched to scratch his eyes out with blunt fingernails. “I’m afraid it was a busy day.” A weak excuse. “The request must have slipped my mind.”

“Must have,” Remus repeated in a dark, scathing tone. He smiled and Logan shuddered. Good. Let him be uncomfortable. Why did he distance himself when he was so clearly head over heels for Roman? This man was _smart_ but acted like a _moron._ When someone touched his elbow, Remus turned back to the crowd awaiting him. He couldn’t avoid them anymore. He smiled at Logan without the expression reaching his eyes. “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

It left Logan on his own, standing at the edge of the crowd with an itching, burning feeling under his skin. He’d thought it was _Roman_ saying those things. Looking at him like that. But no… it was Remus. Remus looked at him like that. Remus recited poetry _like that_ just to rile Logan up. He did it on purpose.

And Logan was more than a little nauseous. It wasn’t the actions that bothered him… not really, anyway. It was the reasoning. Remus did it because he _knew_ that Logan would react like this. That he would get that twisting, fluttery feeling in his stomach. Because he saw _Roman_ , and his heart ached. Remus knew that Logan was in love. If that was the case… how many other people knew? Who else could see he was hopelessly in love? One false step and he’d shift to the wrong side of the law.

A hand slipped into the crook of his elbow. 

He startled, glancing down to see a familiar, delicate face with sharp eyes and a coy smile. He felt that nervous tug in his stomach.

“Ms. Franc.” He wanted to swallow his tongue; why did he sound so disappointed to see her? He adjusted her hand on his arm, supporting her as she shifted the lacy parasol on her opposite shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, seeing you here.”

With a delicate laugh, Emily Franc leaned into him. “I’m surprised you remember me from Nathaniel’s party. It was such an evening. Quite the ordeal.”

“It would take a fool to forget someone as lovely as you, Ms. Franc.”

Emily smiled and hummed. “Those are pretty words. But empty.”

Logan twitched; this woman was too smart. He swallowed and glanced at the crowds. “Do you enjoy poetry?”

“Oh, hardly.” Emily squeezed his arm. “But I saw you. Looking like you were about to fall to your knees for the man.”

Logan’s eye twitched. He could almost see it. Himself, on his knees in front of Roman Kingsley. Would Roman be forceful? Would he tangle his fingers in Logan’s hair and pull Logan’s mouth hot and hungry against him? Or would he be gentle? He could whisper such soft, flowery things. Worship Logan’s mouth and gasp for breath. Logan would weep at the taste of him on his tongue. Logan swallowed reflexively and tugged at his collar.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ms. Franc.”

Emily sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. It was like they were long-time lovers out for a bit of poetry in the park. She leaned against him and Logan didn’t mind it. “Your cheeks are red, darling. You give yourself away.”

Logan coughed into his hand as several people glanced at them. Had they overheard the conversation? Probably. Logan glanced down at Emily. “If I’m red, it’s because a lovely lady is on my arm. No man in his right mind would think otherwise.”

“Pretty words,” Emily said again with that fond smile. She patted his arms. “Pretty like glass bottles in the sun. Empty, _empty_ bottles.”

Logan grimaced. “Did you come here to insult my way of speaking, Ms. Franc?”

Emily pinched his arm like a punishment. “I’ve come to rescue you, dearest. You kept _looking_ at him so hopelessly. And when he turned away, you went so _pale.”_

Logan squirmed. “Did I?”

“Dr. Stein,” Emily murmured against him, her parasol tipping on her shoulder. “Take me for a walk.”

Logan didn’t say no. He turned away from the crowds and led Emily away through St. James Park, a leaden weight of fear in his stomach. He was obvious. He was _obvious_ and everyone _knew,_ and he was going to lose his _license_ —

“Logan— May I call you Logan?”

Logan’s tongue felt like sandpaper. “Of course, Ms. Franc.”

Emily smiled and giggled. “Call me Emily. Now, as I was saying… Logan. Tell me about yourself.”

He did. He told her about his schooling and practice. He told her about his mother and Virgil. How he liked his tea and his favorite meals. He told her many things. Emily smiled and nodded. But didn’t _quite_ look pleased.

“Interesting,” she said, like she’d looked at a poorly drawn picture and had little else to say. “Now. Why don’t you _actually_ tell me about yourself?”

Logan glanced at her. They’d been walking in the park for some time. What else did she want? They stopped under the shade of a tree, allowing Emily to close her parasol and rest her feet. Logan stood with her, his shoulders stiff and expression pinched.

“I’m not exactly sure… what you _want_ of me, Ms. Franc.”

“Emily,” she corrected as she reached out and smoothed Logan’s collar. “I suppose… I’m fascinated by you. Your troubled eyes, your stiff composure… it’s all ruined by Roman Kingsley.” Logan stared at her, and she smiled. “Poor man. You look sick.”

Logan let out a breath and felt his walls of distance come crashing down. “I _feel_ sick. Am I obvious, Ms. Franc? Does the whole world know?”

“London isn’t the entire world, dearest.”

“It’s the entirety of _my_ world,” Logan stressed pathetically. “My life is this city. My work is my being. If everyone knows then…” he felt a burn under his skin. Then the icy bitterness of dread followed. He fidgeted with his glasses uselessly. “Then I’ll be out of work. I’ll be shunned. I won’t… I can’t…”

Emily stepped forward, her hands on his chest as she looked up at him. “Oh, Logan… oh, _darling,_ you dear thing.”

Logan put his hands on her waist, not quite holding her at bay, but more like he needed to ground himself. He couldn’t shake Roman. No matter how hard he tried. And Emily knew and she was pitying him with that worried pout on her face. He felt the stiffness if the corset under her dress. The expensive fabric of petticoats. She leaned into him. He didn’t push her away.

Upon inspection, Emily was actually quite beautiful. Olive skin and round eyes. Dark hair and Cupid’s-bow lips. She was any man’s fantasy. So why wasn’t she _Logan’s?_ Why couldn’t he desire Emily the way he desired Roman? He wanted to. To push Roman far, far from his mind and make everything simple. No suspicions from the world. No risk in love. Black and white. Man and woman.

“Ms. Franc,” he said, a hand on the small of her back. Her eyes were dark. Like falling into a pool of ink. He was suffocating. He didn’t want to breathe. “I think I’ve had an epiphany.”

Emily tilted her head coyly. “Have you? Finally figured out how to shake the looks of suspicion being thrown toward you?”

“I believe so.”

“Come then,” Emily said with that knowing, flat glint in her eye. “Show me.”

Logan took her chin, tilted her head back, and kissed her. The world stuttered around him, confused and unsure of how to continue. His heartbeat thudded madly in his ears… but not from excitement. From anxiety. If he could make himself love Emily. If he could just _love_ her… even if it wasn’t real, then he wouldn’t need Roman Kingsley. He wouldn’t be shunned. 

Logan felt sick. Emily’s hands twisted at the lapels of his jacket. She was stone-stiff against him. Closed eyes, closed mouths. Their lips parted, and she stared up at him with sorry eyes.

“This is just as much to my benefit,” she whispered, “As it is yours.”

Logan pressed his hand into her back. She reached around him, holding him close as she leaned up for another kiss. She tasted like black tea. Strong and scented and not enough sugar. Roman would’ve tasted sweet. Roman would’ve tasted like honey. Logan kissed her harder and Emily gasped against him, grasping for his coat as she leaned back from the force. He pulled back, seeing the glimmer of something in her eyes. Maybe sadness. Maybe regret.

“It’s better this way. For both of us,” she said, like it mattered. She dropped her head against Logan’s chest, pressing herself there as Logan’s hands fell to his sides. He didn’t hold her. She shook. She didn’t want him. She was stuck in the same position as him. And they were all the more bitter for it. “It’s better this way.”

“I know, Ms. Franc.”

_“Emily,”_ she insisted. “If this is to work… you should call me Emily.”

Logan stared ahead, his eyes staring through a blue, blue sky. He missed Roman. He wanted him. This wouldn’t go away, no matter what plan they devised. Logan suddenly felt very hollow. “Of course. Emily.”

+++++

Just outside St. James Park, Roman Kingsley felt his legs go weak and buckle under him. He caught himself on the fence, barely able to feel his face as he stared across the park. Remus had done his reading. He normally did readings flawlessly, but Roman was stubborn and wanted to make sure it was done properly. He wore the green vest that Remus left behind. It was almost baggy on him, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t shave, and already he felt stubble itching at his cheeks. But he stepped out into the sun, hot and tired and feverish...

And then he saw the park like a beacon of hope. He walked along the edges of the northern fence, his fingers dragging along the iron as people sent anxious, uncomfortable looks at his haggard appearance. It took a good loop around the park to spot the poetry reading, but when he did, he saw Remus… and Dr. Stein. His heart seized; what was Dee saying to him? What was he doing? They didn’t speak for long, and before anything drastic happened, Remus turned to the other attendees of the reading and spoke with them. Dr. Stein was left on his own.

But not for a long.

A woman came to stand with him. She put her arm in his and they spoke. Roman made a face and leaned against the fence dizzily. Did they know one another? He could’ve sworn he’d met that woman at a party once… what was her name? The couple started to walk away. Roman felt his stomach jolt and twist. They were leaving. Together.

He slipped through the nearest opening of the fence and made a trailing, wobbling pursuit. More than once, he felt faint… but he didn’t stop. He followed the familiar shape of Logan Stein through the park. Maybe Logan was just being a gentleman. Maybe he was just walking this woman home. Roman stopped at a bench and fell into it, sitting back and wiping feebly at the sweat on his brow. What was her name? Elizabeth? Erika, maybe. Her last name was harder to place. A currency, he thought. Like Shilling. Or Crown. Or Notes. The world tilted and Roman’s stomach tilted with it. 

Sitting forward, he put his head between his knees and breathed deep. He wanted to go home. This was a mistake. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to feel the sea breeze on his clammy skin. He wanted… Roman took another breath. He wanted Logan Stein to be there. To talk to him with that calm, gentle tone. Or maybe to scold him and bicker with him over Roman’s antics. He wanted… Roman closed his eyes. He had to go home.

Roman stood… and then he sat back down. There, just across the pond, under the shade of a large oak tree, the nameless woman stood in Logan’s arms. He held her in a torrid embrace, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he didn’t hold tight enough. He was kissing her. In public. With reckless abandon.

Roman felt dizzy. This _had_ to be a hallucination. He’d thought, maybe… maybe Logan felt the same. And now this? Perhaps Logan _had_ been interested, once upon a time. And Roman had flubbed his chance, dallying too long… and now Logan buried himself in his woman like his life depended on it. Roman swallowed and put his head back between his legs.

Maybe Logan hadn’t been interested. Maybe it was all in Roman’s head. And this woman, whoever she was, had been with Logan the entire time. Roman couldn’t breathe. He’d forgotten how. Something incredibly strong was crushing his chest. He coughed hard, gasping wheezing when he couldn’t catch his breath. Maybe Logan had been courting this woman for _months_ and Roman, the damn fool, had never thought to _ask._ Now, there he was, unable to breathe on a park bench.

He pushed himself up and onto his feet, stumbling out of the park. Away from the pond. Away from the tree. Away from Logan and his nameless lover. Roman ignored the looks people sent him. For all they knew, he was Remus, off on another mad opium spree, ready to seek inspiration in the flutter of a leaf on the curb.

He coughed as he walked, having to stop more than once when his lungs ached and legs wobbled. The tightness in his chest wouldn’t leave. It had been there all day… why wouldn’t it go? He went all the way to the Duell Estate. He saw the clean bricks and neatly tiled roof. He marched up to the door and pushed it open without thought. He stumbled in the entryway, feeling another way of dizziness. Where was Remus? Where was Andréa?

He went to the dining room, threw open the doors and cried: _“He’s moved on!_ I’m nothing but a scar in the sand, lost under the waves!”

His legs buckled shortly after, and he barely caught himself on the corner of the table before he hit the floor. Dee was up and out of his chair in an instant.

“Roman! Roman, _what on earth—_ are you alright?” He pulled Roman to his feet, holding him steady as Roman looked up and into his eyes. There were two of him. Why were there two? One overlapping the other. Mirror, mirror on the wall… Dee threw an arm around his waist and held him up. “Roman— _dio_ — _shit_ — Roman, you’re falling, you’re slipping…!”

Roman’s knees hit the floor and he couldn’t feel it. He felt the world tilt and shift drastically. He opened his eyes. His feet were off the ground. Dee was _carrying_ him.

“Andréa—" He wheezed, tugging on Dee’s collar. _“Andréa.”_

“Save your strength,” Dee grunted as he took Roman up the stairs. A maid caught his eye and Dee snapped at her, “Call for a _doctor,_ dammit!” She girl skittered down the stairs and Roman pitied her. There was little in the world that was scarier than Dee when he was angry.

The only thing scarier to Roman was _Remus_ when _he_ was angry. Roman digressed. He tugged at Dee’s collar again.

“André… _Andréa_ , are you—" he coughed, and it made his entire body hurt. When he caught his breath, he simply went limp in Dee’s arms, too exhausted to do anything else. “I’m warm,” He croaked. Dee hummed and adjusted his hold under Roman’s legs. Roman sighed. “My chest hurts.”

“Hush,” Dee said as he shouldered his way into a room. A guest room, it would seem. He placed Roman on the bed and looked down at his attire. One elegant eyebrow raise later, Dee was helping Roman out of a loose, green vest. “Did you and Remus trade clothing this morning?”

Roman blinked dizzily. “Remus… Remus went to do a reading for me. In the park.”

“Ah. I wondered why he slithered out of the house so early like that.”

Roman grasped at Dee’s sleeve, looking up at him with wide, startled eyes. “I saw him, Andréa.”

“Whom?”

Roman coughed hard, only collapsing against the pillows when Dee pushed him back. “ _Dr. Stein_ … I saw him. He was with a woman.” Dee stared at him, clearly not understanding. Roman whined, high and pained in the back of his throat. “He’s found himself a _woman_ and even if he _had_ looked at me, it doesn’t matter anymore… he’s _done_ with me, Andréa. He’s done with me…”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Roman groaned, coughed hard, and Dee unbuttoned the top of Roman’s shirt. Still, Roman was still sweating and flushed with a fever. Dee grimaced. “You’re burning up, Roman. I’m going to see if someone can find Dr. Stein—"

Roman jolted upright, grasping at Dee’s arm and crying, _“No!_ No, he— I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to—" he coughed desperately, and Dee held him up until he could breathe again. “I don’t want to see him. He was… I… it hurts. To think that… maybe…”

Dee laid him down against the pillows. Roman coughed again, feeble and shaking while Dee pushed his sweat-damp curls from his forehead. “Roman. This is ridiculous. Dr. Stein adores you.”

Roman stared up at him with hazy delirious eyes. “No, he doesn’t. He’s in love with the woman.”

Dee ground his teeth. “ _What woman?”_

“The woman,” Roman choked and wheezed before he said, “The… the _woman…!”_

With a bitter glance, Dee pulled the blankets up to Roman’s chest. He laid there, small and vulnerable under the covers as Dee leaned over him, his arms braced on either side of Roman’s head.

“You listen to me, Roman Kingsley. Dr. Stein is _ridiculously_ in love with you. I’ve never seen such an intelligent man be so incredibly stupid, avoiding the point in such spectacular fashion.”

Roman blinked warily, reaching up to brush his thumb over Dee’s cheek. “Andréa… you’re such a wonderful liar.”

Dee glared at him. He didn’t pull away. “I hate that. You know I hate that.”

“Hmm?”

“When people use my name.”

“That’s a lie. I've seen how you swoon when Remus says your name.” Roman’s voice was hoarse. “And it’s a lovely name. Cultured.”

Dee stood upright and away from him. “It makes me sound like my father.”

“I didn’t know your father,” Roman murmured. “The only Andréa I know is you. Just you.”

Dee sighed and rolled his eyes. “You’re such a romantic, Roman. How can you be so blind to the doctor?”

“Because he doesn’t love me.” Roman blinked slowly. “I don’t think he ever did. Maybe… maybe _once_ I thought…”

“Enough. You’re ill. I’m calling for a doctor.”

“Not Stein,” Roman groaned. “He’s with his woman. His lover. They were both horribly beautiful. Carved from marble, I bet they’d be twisted together in ecstasy…”

Dee rolled his eyes. “You’ve been reading too much of your brother’s work.”

From the hallway, Dee heard a crash. Then a slam. And finally, Remus’s voice shrieking, _“Where is he?”_

It must be noted that there is little that can be done to stop Remus when he is on a tirade. Maybe a primal force of nature could stop him. Day and night collapsing on themselves _might_ stop him. Thanatos crashing into him with wings of night and a fiery blade, perhaps. Surely, Thanatos was busy. So Remus tore through the house like a hurricane, snarling and snapping like a rabid dog as he looked in each room. Dining room, kitchens, entrance hall, Dee’s office… he went to the stairs, nearly foaming at the mouth when he saw Dee descending from the second floor.

“He’s _here_ and I _know it. Where is he!”_

Dee raised an eyebrow, his hand resting calmly on the railing. He saw the red vest… _Roman’s_ vest. And Remus’s hair was all brown. No mustache. He really _had_ taken Roman’s place for a day. Dee frowned. “What do you plan to _do_ with him? He’s sick, Remus.”

“Ex _actly_ ,” Remus snapped. He went up the stairs, but Dee grabbed his arm on the way, holding him halfway up the stairs as Remus fought his hold. “Let go of me! I went out there to do the damn _reading_ so he could _rest!_ And I saw him stumbling out of the park, I’m not an idiot—"

“Ah, so you saw him. That means you must’ve seen the good Dr. Stein.”

Remus froze. He glanced down at Dee with sharp eyes. “Maybe I did.”

Dee’s curiosity sparked. “So, you saw Dr. Stein with this… ‘ _woman.’”_

“What?” Remus grimaced and shook his arm out of Dee’s grip. “I saw him with Emily Franc.” Dee’s face didn’t change, and Remus said, “You know her! She’s that one with the birthmark on the small of her back? They looked like they were plotting something.”

“Why do you know about her _birthmark_ — don’t answer that.” Dee rubbed his brow tiredly as he leaned against the railing. “Apparently, Dr. Stein is… involved. With this woman. Or that’s what Roman seems to think.”

Remus made a face. “So, he’s here, being sick and sorry for himself?”

“This doesn’t seem like a normal fever, Remus,” he said stiffly. Remus’s put-out expression turned dark and serious. Dee frowned. “He’s warmer than usual. Feeble. Can’t even stand up.” He thought of the green vest… and he glanced at Remus. He saw the seams of Roman’s red vest straining at Remus’s sides. Dee frowned. “Has Roman been losing weight?”

Remus’s fair face went a little paler. “You don’t think…”

Dee kissed him quick and popped a button on the vest. Remus breathed a little easier. Then he descended the stairs, leaving Remus lingering halfway. “I’m calling a doctor.”

Remus watched him go. “Stein?”

“Roman doesn’t want to see him,” Dee said as he went for his coat. “I’ll have to find someone else.”

“It won’t work. Roman won’t trust anyone else,” Remus said, a shadow lingering over his expression. Dee glanced up at him, seeing the flicker off fear flicker through Remus’s eyes. “He won’t listen to anyone but Stein.”

Dee put on his top hat and steel hardened his eyes. “He won’t have a choice.”

+++++

“Wait, wait, wait… what year was this? Because Roman’s cause of death was—" Thomas looked up, paused, and sighed. The sun had come up. The dining room was empty. 

He was alone, and the story wasn’t finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know Broken Heart Syndrome symptoms are similar to that of a heart attack?  
> The more you know.
> 
> See you next chapter.  
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes


	12. Sinking Ship

On seven separate occasions, Logan received requests from Roman Kingsley (or Patton) insisting that Roman was ill. But Logan was a changed man. _Changed_ meaning he was going to distance himself until people no longer saw him as “the doctor who stared at Roman Kingsley as if he hung the stars in the sky.” Instead, Logan took these requests and referred other doctors.

Most of these doctors — past classmates, associates, and the like — came back to him insisting that this patient was being _impossible._ That he wouldn’t listen to diagnoses and instructions. That Logan was wasting their time. All of them were frustrated and looking for someone to blame. Logan was the ideal punching bag; no one could beat a sick man in good conscience. No, they blamed Logan for this because Roman Kingsley wouldn’t obey _any_ doctor's order… none except Logan. And that only made Logan look worse. It made the situation more desperate. And Logan fought to distance himself further.

He redirected the requests. He threw away notes penned in Roman’s hand. He went out, called on Emily Franc, and worked tirelessly. He was running on fumes by the end of August, hardly aware as each day bled into the next. Roman’s requests for a doctor were ignored by Logan and passed onto a _new_ doctor. He was running out of associates willing to make the trek. Roman Kingsley was becoming infamous… but it also made a point. 

It made the point that Logan Stein was in no way willing to work with Roman Kingsley. Rather than being the man who “stares longingly at Roman Kingsley” he was becoming the man who “did anything to avoid him.”

And this was fine. It was fine. Logan stood in St. James with Emily’s hand in his and a cold, hard pit in his stomach. And it was… fine.

The morning was cool, and her parasol was hardly necessary… but it looked dainty in her hands. It made her look smaller. Breakable. It didn’t fit her. Logan knew more about her now. He knew that she was sharp and intelligent. That she was more than she let on. A liar, a lover… which was the truth? Logan realized far too late that he didn’t actually _care_. Emily spoke plainly, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“My friend, Marie, is getting married tomorrow.”

He stared at her, a strange feeling flickering in his stomach. Butterflies wouldn’t be the right description. More like spiders. Many, tiny little pinpricks of worry. He couldn’t manage to say more than a soft, “Oh?”

Emily was smiling, but he could tell there was something under it. A deep desire to cry, hidden under a golden smile. “I’m happy for her. This man will provide for her.”

Logan turned to the pond. Swans were fluttering their wings, fast and wild and fearful as they took flight. “For a woman who enjoys calling my lies, you’re quite dishonest yourself.”

She laughed, that high, trembling laugh she always used with him. It didn’t reach very deep. He wondered if it was a real laugh. Would Marie have known her real laugh? Maybe. Emily leaned into his arm, resting her head on his shoulder as she sighed. “We’re dishonest people, aren’t we?” It wasn’t a question.

“Dishonest enough,” Logan agreed gently. The day would be a warm one. The sun already felt hot… and Logan adjusted his hat tiredly. “It’s illogical to be this way. And yet…”

Emily hummed; her head heavy on his shoulder. “And yet.” There was a long pause, one where the sounds of a busy park and warm English summer passed through them. Emily eyed the water, the light shimmering and bouncing as it glinted against her dark dress. After a few long moments of quiet, Emily murmured, “She said she’d run away with me, if I asked.”

Logan didn’t look at her. That ached to hear… this Marie _loved_ her. Marie obviously would’ve shaken off the rest of the world, should the opportunity arise. Logan could only hope for such a thing. “Why not take her? Why not run?”

“Because she loves her family,” she said plainly. “Were she anything like me, with my bitter dislike for my parents… it would be different. But she should stay here. She’d be happier… being able to see them.”

“So you’d disregard her? So easily?”

“Disregard?” Emily asked, a little startled by the question. “I’m not _disregarding_. I’m stepping back for her benefit. Were it better for her… to be with me… I’d take her. We’d run away.”

Logan stared across the pond. “And go where?”

“North,” she said, “Somewhere green. Or further. Maybe Dublin. She likes the rain.”

“But you won’t,” he murmured, half to himself. “You’ll let her marry.”

“And maybe someday, she’ll forget me.”

“Doubtful.”

Emily laughed, a sharp, angry sound. “Such a dark pessimist. Is this what drew in Roman Kingsley? Your winning wit and angry outlook?”

“I didn’t draw _anyone_ in, Emily.” Logan patted her hand, and Emily sighed. She sighed, gentle and very, very brittle. Logan took her arm from his, putting his around her waist and pulling her close. “I could attend the wedding with you.”

“No,” Emily said softly, her expression cold but thoughtful. “No, I think… I think it would only make things worse. To see her in her wedding gown.”

“You wouldn’t want to see her?”

Emily dipped her chin and held herself to Logan tightly. “I think. I think I’m going to leave tomorrow.” Logan looked at her, an alarmed expression on his face. Emily smiled. “Marie has seen you with me. She feels safe in her decision to marry. Now I… I can leave and forget that I was ever in love.”

“Is it so simple?” Logan asked as he held her, a trembling hand resting at the small of her back. If she left, what happened to him? They had been each other’s protector against prying eyes. If she was gone, what became of him? Self-preservation burned deep in his stomach, boiling too many frightened emotions. If she could pack up and leave… perhaps he could do the same.

He could leave London. He’d never have to think about Roman Kingsley ever again. He wouldn’t have to answer or even receive his summonses. He could go back to Edinburgh, teach and learn more than ever before. He could go, start a new life, and be… all alone. Logan sighed inwardly, feeling that cold, hard pit in his stomach once more.

When Emily stepped away from him, Logan looked at her. She looked resigned. Like the parasol on her shoulder was a sword and she was heading out into the world to fight her last battle. She looked ready to either conquer… or martyr. Most likely the latter.

“I’m… I’m leaving,” she said.

“I can walk you home…”

“No. No, thank you,” Emily stepped back, an eye on the pond as she brushed her dark hair from her eyes. She shined with a dark light, like inverted lightning on a clear blue sky. It hurt to look at her with that painful expression on her face, but Logan didn’t dare turn away. She sighed softly, tired and resigned. “Our use for each other has come to an end.”

“Has it?” Logan said, a little prickly. She glanced at him with a sharp smile, one that knew exactly what she was doing. He took off his hat and held it to his chest. “Ms. Franc, I do believe you’re _leaving me_.”

Emily looked at him. “Do you want me to stay?”

Logan hesitated. If she stayed, they could have a wonderful, fake life together. They could be wed and have children and be exquisitely unhappy. They could melt themselves down into nothing but two bundles of repressed, regretful soil. It was a sad concept. One that made Logan understand why Emily wanted to run; not everyone could hide themselves for the rest of their lives.

“I wish I wanted you to stay,” Logan said after a moment of thought. Emily reached out to touch his arm, a gentle, soothing gesture. Like a brief goodbye that wasn’t exactly personal. They knew so much about each other… and yet, she was distant. Ready to leave after so long together. He looked at her, holding her hand as he said, “What was I to you?”

“A port in a storm,” she murmured with a tilt of her parasol. Her eyes were calm and cool. “And what was I to you?”

Logan blinked. “Safety, I’d suppose.” She raised an eyebrow, and Logan lowered his eyes, feeling the heat of her hand on his. “Perhaps… a mask. More than anything.” Emily laughed softly, like this was a fond recollection. He looked into her eyes, seeing a gentleness hidden behind the distance. “And now you’ll leave. And leave me so vulnerable.”

Emily tilted her head to the side. “You’re not a port anymore, Logan. You haven’t been for some time.”

“Emily…”

“I can’t find shelter on a sinking ship. No one can.” She reached out to touch his cheek. He leaned into it while he felt a dull, fearful ache in his chest. Emily smiled and pulled him down, kissed him once. Just a chaste brush of lips. “Goodbye, Logan.”

He held her hand, a little scared to let this bit of shelter slip away. “Where will you go?”

She smiled. “Somewhere warm. With little rain. Maybe I’ll see Paris.”

“I wish you well,” he said, a catch deep in his chest. She smiled and kissed him again, the feeling no unusual as they’d become accustomed to playing the part of lovers. However, this was their final bow. Emily had no need of him… and Logan was on his own.

With a fond smile, Emily turned away and started off down the path, her head bowed coyly and parasol turning slowly. He wished there was something he could say. Something to draw her back and keep her there… but it wouldn’t be right. From the very start, they knew they were using each other. Now Emily was ready to step back. Ready to free herself from the illusion. Logan was still unsure. Afraid to let himself exist in a world where he didn't have a distraction from Roman Kingsley.

“Emily,” he said, giving her pause on her way. She pivoted, a shattered, watery look in her eye as he held his hat to his chest. They were the only thing holding each other up. Now, without one another, they were toppling over. No one broke their fall. “Emily, I…”

“Yes?”

“I…”

“Yes.”

Logan felt his heart aching. He didn’t want to face himself. Not this burning fluttery desire for Roman. Not the ache that wrenched him from sleep, gasping and trembling. He didn’t want to face it and come to the unfortunate conclusion that he was bitterly in love and would never quite fall out of it. Love was an open wound and they were each other’s bandage for so long. Without a tourniquet, Logan was getting dizzy and lovesick again.

He opened his mouth, ready to plead. To beg in an ungentlemanly manner. To offer her anything and everything to _stay_. To _shelter_ him. But she was no man’s shield, nor would she ever be. Emily was a dagger, cold and ready to cut. And a thin blade couldn’t save Logan now.

“I wish,” he said with a half step forward. She looked at him for a moment, her eyes boring into him. He didn’t dare look away. “I wish I loved you. Truly.”

It would be easier to love her. To give her what she needed. If he loved her, and she loved him… things would be simpler. Heartbreak would be soothed. Lies would be swept under the rug… and they could live their lives. Far away from London, they’d be free. In Paris, in Berlin… anywhere. Anywhere but there, where they were, in that moment.

Emily smiled, and it wobbled. It didn’t look like any smile she’d ever given him before. It was genuine. Cutting deep and true as she said, “So do I.”

With that, she turned on her heel, wiped her eyes, and walked away. Logan didn’t call for her to stop again. He let her go. Somewhere warm… somewhere with sunlight. She would like that. Logan wanted to go south. Back to the sea. Back to the Kingsley Summer Home. He _wanted_ to go back to Roman. Him and his bright creative whimsies and magic laughter… Logan put on his hat and sighed.

He went home.

+++++

Thomas didn’t sleep that day. He stayed up through long, long hours trying to make sense of things. Sunshine turned gray with rain clouds. It rained so much in England… but he didn’t regret coming here to this place. No, he only regretted the path things had taken.

What happened to Roman Kingsley and Logan Stein? Remus had always been so _vague_ … he never used timelines or dates, only colorful descriptions. “A warm summer evening,” “A crisp spring morning,” both were nice, but what _year_ did this happen? It’s possible that this was the year that Roman Kingsley fell ill with tuberculosis. Had he died before they could be honest with one another?

Furthermore… Roman had been blunt from the beginning. His eyes had shone with, in Logan’s words, _“raw attraction”_ and that seemed evident enough… did he think the attraction was whimsy? Maybe. Either way, it worked to their detriment. Love was fleeting and so was time… which would win?

Thomas shifted in his seat, ready to make a note, only to stop. The keys were pressed down slowly, one at a time. Thomas watched. Dee? Remus? Virgil or Patton? Whoever it was, they worked carefully. Each word came through after painstaking consideration.

_Thomas,_ it read, _it is late in the afternoon._

“I know,” he said out loud. Could they hear him? He wasn’t sure. The typing went on.

_You should rest._

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Thomas joked. Then he winced. Probably not the best joke to make with ghosts. There was a pause… and then the typing resumed.

_Patton wants you to sleep._ _You remind him of the nights before Virgil passed away, working despite fatigue._

“Who is this? Remus?”

_No._

And that was it. Thomas sighed. “Why can’t you just _talk_ to me? Why can’t I see you?”

_Thomas,_ the cursor blinked for a while, like deep thought went into the next message. _I implore you to reconsider. You need your sleep._

“But. But, what _year_ did this happen? Did Roman—"

_You are getting agitated. It’s like speaking to a child that has gone without a meal._

So it was _Dee_ typing this. Fine. Thomas didn’t mind. He was used to Dee being patronizing. He stared at the screen for a while… then murmured, “I’m not agitated. I’m scared.” His hands worried together. “Did… did they ever get to confess? Did they know how the other felt about them… before Roman died?”

_Go to sleep, Thomas._

And despite all desire to stay awake and listen to the keys click slowly, Thomas stood and got into bed. He turned the blinds to block out the weak, gray light… and pulled the covers high. With luck, he’d sleep. With luck, Roman’s and Logan’s story wouldn’t be a tragedy.

With luck, time would heal all wounds.

The keyboard clicked softly. A gentle hand passed through Thomas’s hair, lulling him to sleep. Paragraphs upon paragraphs were written… and the story continued. 

+++++

Dee had seen Roman sick before. He’d seen him gasping for breath at the end of coughing fits, he’d seen him dizzy and stumbling with a fever, and he’d seen him cough hard enough to bring up blood.

This was different.

Roman was literally wasting away. Ever since he’d come to the Duell Estate three weeks ago, Roman hadn’t been able to get himself out of bed and back into his natural groove. He didn’t laugh off the sickness anymore. He didn’t paint through it until he collapsed. After the first week, Dee and Remus helped him to a carriage and brought him back to his apartment. And there Roman stayed, wheezing and coughing and shivering.

Doctors came. Many, _many_ doctors came. They all said the same things: he’s sick, he needs to be quarantined, consumption moves quickly… Dee knew all the signs. He knew that Roman was in a bad way. But he couldn’t _do_ anything, and it was frustrating. They called on Dr. Stein, and a huffy doctor named Carron came calling. They called on Dr. Stein again, and Dr. Johnson came. Then Dr. O’Henry. And Dr. Peters. But never Logan Stein himself. Dee was losing patience… and Roman was getting thinner by the day.

He couldn’t keep food down. He complained that he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t — or maybe _couldn’t_ — rest. Dee wondered about the last time he’d been well enough to have a proper bath.

Patton had cared for Roman for a while, helping wipe the blood from Roman’s chin after he coughed for too long… but soon Patton came down with a fever. Virgil, ever the fretful worrier, had spirited him away to the flat above his shop, not allowing Patton to go back until Roman had recovered. But that was the _thing_ … Roman didn’t get better. No matter what his sickness was, Roman always fought through them. But not this time.

Doctors said he needed fresh air and rest… but Roman couldn’t even get himself out of bed. And that’s where he was when Dee sat beside him. Remus was downstairs arguing with some woman named Amelia. Apparently, Patton had fired her and hired a new matron for his orphanage. Dee didn’t care. He leaned forward to wipe the sweat from Roman’s brow. He trembled where he laid like a wet dog in the rain. Dee sighed.

“Roman… Roman, please.” Dee did not beg. He did not _beg_ for anything, unless it was Remus. But there he was. Pleading. “The doctors day you need fresh air. That it’ll help your lungs. Let us put you in the armchair. We’ll sit you by the window.” Roman turned his face into the pillow and groaned, an aching, grating sound. Dee frowned. “Roman. Be honest.” He sat up and stood over Roman, taking his chin and forcing their eyes to meet. “Roman. Are you deliberately ignoring the doctors?”

Roman blinked sluggishly and he let out a garbled, “ _What?”_

“Are you doing this in hopes of getting so ill that Dr. Stein _has_ to come?”

Roman’s brow furrowed. “Am I—" he couldn’t finish as he coughed, hard and scraping, into his hand. This continued for a solid minute, and when he was finished, he hacked up a fistful of blood-tinged spit. Dee helped up wipe away the blood from his chin and hand with a handkerchief. Roman laid back down. “This… has _nothing_ to do with Dr. Stein. I…” he paused, a soft, sad expression flickering through his eyes. “I wish he would come. I wish I could see him. One more time.”

Dee felt something twist in his stomach; maybe fear. Maybe anger. Maybe both. “You say that as if you’re at death's door.”

Roman gave him a tired look. “I’m not an idiot, Andréa.”

“I never said you were, dearest.”

Roman softened. “I can’t… can’t even stand up on my own. I’ve never felt so _weak_.” He swallowed thickly, an eye landing on that pink handkerchief. His hand clenched in the blankets. “Can I tell you something?”

“You can tell me anything you like, Roman.”

“I’m scared,” Roman whispered, his green eyes flickering dully in the lamp light. “I was scared… that he’d reject me. That Logan would…” he paused, coughed a bit, and said hoarsely, “But _now…_ I’m just afraid I’ll die with regrets. That he’ll… he’ll _never_ know.” He looked contemplative for a moment. “Is this what a dying man's last thoughts are? Regret? Fear? Hindsight?”

“Regret is the past-tense of indecision. So is hindsight,” Dee said numbly. He didn’t like the way Roman was talking. It was like a man giving his last confession. He pushed Roman’s hair from his forehead gently. “You can still make a choice, Roman. It isn’t too late.”

“He won’t come,” Roman croaked as he turned his face into the pillow. “He won’t come…”

With clenched teeth, Dee stood and said: “We’ll see about that.” Roman called for him, telling him to stop, wait, but Dee didn’t listen. This was ludicrous. How stubborn could one man be?

He clattered down the stairs, stomping his way down and startling Remus and Amelia where they were standing in the living room. Remus had his arms crossed and his hips pivoted at That Angle that meant he was frustrated… but winning the argument. Dee took his coat and hat and put them on. Remus sidestepped the woman and touched his arm.

“How is he? Is he—"

“I’m going to get Dr. Stein.”

Remus stared, his expression pinching as he thought. “But we _tried_ —"

“I’m putting an end to this,” Dee grumbled, “The man wants to play pretend? _Fine._ But I’m not letting your brother’s final thoughts be _hopeless_ for the sake of Dr. Stein’s _lies._ ”

Remus went rigid where he stood. “F… final…” he blinked hard and made another face. “What happened to ‘we shouldn’t pressure things,’ hmm?”

Dee glared at him. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Obviously,” Remus snorted.

Amelia stomped her foot. “We’re not _done_ here. What about my _pay?”_

Dee snarled and stepped forward. “Mr. Moore _has_ paid you, hasn’t he?”

Amelia shrank back. “Wh— yes, but—"

“And he gave you your pay through the end of the month _despite_ letting you go on the second?”

She looked away. “ _Yes,_ but—-“

“Then. _Get. Out_. I haven’t the time to waste on our antics. Surely, you can find another job.” Amelia glared, and Dee stood over her with a sweet, dark smile. “Or we could sit. Chat. Talk about your gambling problem.”

Amelia stepped back, her eyes wide. “How… how…?”

Dee’s smile fell. “My spouse’s friends are _very_ important to them. I look into their lives on habit.” Amelia fiddled with her sleeves, unsure of how to proceed. “Leave, Miss Bennet. Don’t come back.”

While she skittered for the door, Remus grabbed his lapels and shoved Dee back against the wall. “I’ve never wanted to ravish you against a wall _so badly.”_

“Later,” Dee said through a growl. Remus stepped back, allowing him to go for the door. “I’m off to scold a doctor.”

He stalked through town with fire in his eyes. People stepped out of his way in fear of being trampled. No one who recognized him dared to call for his attention. He was on a mission. A mission to put this ridiculousness to rest. Had the doctor been attempting to hide himself behind a woman? A cowardly move. While he hid himself, Roman was fading fast. Stein wasn’t a magician, nor was he a miracle worker. But he _was_ the only one who could manage to make Roman rest. Even if it didn’t save him, it might give Roman some sense of respite before the end.

Dee stepped up to the clinic, slammed open the door, and glared at the inhabitants. Logan was standing with a young man. The consultation must’ve been over. The man held a bottle in his hand. Dee glared at him and the man looked much, much smaller.

“You,” Dee snapped, _“Out.”_

The boy immediately darted out the door without question. Logan glared at him before he went to wipe his hands.

“I don’t know who you think you are, Mr. Dee. But this is _my_ clinic. You have no authority over my patients.”

Dee wanted to throw something at him. To find something sharp and jagged and drive it under his fingernails… but he didn’t. He closed the door with a forceful push and said, “Roman is sick.”

Logan washed his hands. “I’m busy at the moment. I can refer a colleague—"

“You daft _twit_ , he doesn’t _need_ another doctor! He needs _you!”_

There was a moment of pause. One where Dee’s words hung in the air while Logan toweled his hands dry. Then, Logan spoke. “If that’s all he needs, then he isn’t ill, Mr. Dee. He’s delusional.”

That was it. Dee had _tried_ being civil. He knocked over the small table between them as he surged forward, taking Logan by the lapels before the threw him against the wall, holding him in place. His glasses knocked askew and he stumbled, clearly alarmed. His eyes went wide. Dee liked it. It meant he had people’s undivided attention when they looked at him like that.

“Look at you,” he said where he had Logan pinned to the wall like an insect pinned for observation. Logan grasped his wrists, a flicker of anger bolting through his eyes… only to have it melt back down into fear. Dee narrowed his eyes. Dr. Stein wasn’t the same person he used to be. He wasn’t the violent youth he was before… now, he was small in Dee’s hands. Manageable. Dee glared. “You’re so _cold_ , Dr. Stein. So _calm_ and _tactful_ ,” Dee’s words were sarcastic and biting. Logan said nothing. Dee shook him hard, feeling a bit of satisfaction when Logan’s head hit the wall and he winced. “You’re lying to yourself! Not even a _good_ lie. Trust me, lying is how I made my fortune.”

Logan’s eyes burned into him. “I’m not _lying—"_

“Roman is in love with you.”

Logan went silent. His mouth hung open. His eyes were still wide. Dee fought the urge to kick him for good measure.

“He is in love with you. And he’s ill. And won’t listen to anyone else.” Logan was still quiet, his mouth opening and closing in a bizarre rendition of a fish on land. How could he not know what to say? How did he not _see it?_ Dee leaned close, “I’d warned you, Dr. Stein. That if you were to hurt the Kingsleys in any way, then you would answer to me.”

Logan’s expression finally broke and he had the audacity to look offended. “I’m not the cause of Mr. Kingsley’s illness—"

“If you think _that’s_ what I’m saying, then you’re even dumber than you look.” Dee pressed him against the wall, a little gratified when Logan grunted and pushed back. “He is hopelessly in love with you and it’s _clear_ you feel the same—"

“I… I don’t—"

“—so why,” Dee continued without pause, “Are you being so damned _stubborn?_ Why won’t you go to him? He needs you. He _needs_ you.”

Logan’s mouth snapped shut and he closed his eyes. Out of sight, out of mind? It was a childish maneuver. Dee was ready to snap him in half and have done with this whole situation. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t because Roman would be devastated. Instead, he released Logan’s jacket and dropped him to the floor.

“All that,” Dee sighed. _“All that…_ and you’re just going to stand there.” Logan straightened his glasses but said nothing in his defense. Dee felt fear wash over him slowly; if Logan didn’t come to see Roman, what would become of him? How would he face Roman again? Dee felt bitter. “Is this… this _woman_ of yours… does she mean more to you? Were your feelings for Roman so fleeting that they could be replaced so quickly?”

Logan’s eyes flickered up, meeting his… only to look away. “Emily… Emily was…”

“I don’t _care_ what she was,” Dee snapped. Logan had the decency to flinch. Dee pressed the issue. “What do _you_ plan to do? Are you going to leave Roman to his devices and just _ignore_ what I’ve told you?”

Logan twitched away, his hands working at his cravat uneasily. “I… I don’t understand why you’re so invested in this. How am I supposed to take what you’ve said at face-value? You’ve already admitted to being a liar.”

Dee gave him an unimpressed look. “Really? _Really_. You’re going to deflect, Dr. Stein? I don’t have _time_ to spin a lie to make you feel better. I’m here of my own volition, telling you the truth, despite my desire to see you writhe in the throes of your own self-deception.”

Logan baulked. “ _Self-deception—"_

“Be that as it may, I haven’t lied to you.” His eyes cut into Logan. He saw the sea of Logan’s irises; the shock of lightening through the waves and a cloudy, sorry sky. Dee frowned. “What do you plan to do about it?”

Logan blinked. And said nothing. He said… nothing. Dee wanted to take a scalpel and flay him. He _wanted to_ … but he didn’t. He stood there, silent and stiff like a statue. Did he think that this was a ploy? Just a game to get him into Roman’s apartment? Dee sighed.

“He’s ill. He loves you. He’ll only listen _to you…_ and you’re going to stand here, frustrated and quiet? You can do that, can’t you? Sit here with your hands over your ears and eyes closed.” Dee smiled and Logan looked away. “How does it taste, Dr. Stein? Labeling fear as self-preservation… does it go down sweet? Or is it bitter?”

Logan glared at him. But still, he said nothing. Like he was afraid to give Dee more ammunition. It was a smart move. Dee would turn anything on him if he was allowed… and yet, it was infuriating. Roman was wasting away, and the doctor simply stood there. Dee pursed his lips.

“Fine. _Fine…”_ Dee stepped back and raised his hands. “Perhaps I was wrong. You _don’t_ love him. You _don’t_ have those feelings. You never have. Of _course_ you haven’t,” he said, watching the way Logan shrank a bit where he stood. Dee grimaced. “I’ll find another doctor. One that isn’t incompetent.”

While Dee went for the door, Logan couldn’t help but jump to his own defense. “I am _not_ incompetent!”

“Oh? Doctor,” Dee said in that coy, deceitful voice. “I _never said you were.”_

He stepped out of the office and slammed the door. Logan didn’t give chase. He didn’t run to Roman’s aid. He stayed in his office, bitter and ashamed. Part of Dee was satisfied. Another part, the vast majority of him, was _terrified._ Roman was right.

He wasn’t going to come.

+++++

While Dee was across town, Remus crept back up to Roman’s room. Roman was barely conscious, staring up at the ceiling with dull, half-lidded eyes until Remus knelt next to the bed and rested his chin on the blankets. Roman blinked, looked at him, and smiled.

“I finished it,” he said with a tired smile. Remus frowned.

“Finished what?”

“The painting,” Roman said with a slight nod. Remus pivoted and looked at the large canvas. It was their Summer House. Done in the soft, pleasant colors of autumn. It had changed again. It was softer. Smudged by emotion but sharp with intent. He could smell the salt. He could feel the mist. He could hear mother calling them inside… Remus looked away. “After… after working on it for so long. I finished.”

Remus tried to grin, but only a sad smile came through. “I can only imagine how long the next one will take.”

Roman coughed a bit, then settled back down. “I want you to have it.”

Remus twitched. “What?”

“I want you to have the painting.”

“Wouldn’t you rather keep it? Or auction it? It’s well done. It would fetch a nice sum…”

“Remus,” He croaked, a little smile on his face. Remus’s jaw clicked shut, and he reached out to take Roman’s hand. He held it tight. Roman’s smile softened. “I want you to have it. If I could give you anything… it would be a memory from our childhood. Something warm. Something to remind you of… better times.”

Remus swallowed thickly, his voice coming out broken and fearful. “Don’t say that. Don’t say things like that.”

Roman made a funny face. “Why not?”

“It makes it sound like I’ll never see you again. You’re not allowed to die,” Remus grimaced as he pressed his face against Roman’s clammy hand. “Not unless I get to kill you.”

Roman laughed, but it melted down into a fit of painful coughing. Remus regretted saying anything when he wiped blood from Roman’s lips. Roman laid back down. “I’m not allowed to die,” he said to himself, almost like he was amused.

Remus laid his head on Roman’s arm and murmured, “No. you’re not.”

“I’m not allowed to die,” he said again. Distant, this time. Like it was a foreign concept. Remus felt his chest ache. This pain… his fear… he wanted to make it go away. But he couldn’t run from the pain. Not the way he ran from the death of their parents. No, Roman was still alive. He was still alive, and he whispered as he closed his eyes: “I’m not allowed… to die.”

+++++

“Remus. _Remus,”_ Dee’s voice hung in the air, and Remus curled in on himself tighter. He didn’t want to look at Dee’s face. He didn’t want to hear his scolding voice. He laid in their bed. It was dusty. The blankets had been replaced many years ago. The smell was different. Remus curled into the pillows, and Dee said again, “Remus. If you want Roman to come back, you need to _write.”_

Remus felt himself go hazy and translucent in the sun that came through the windows. He wanted to fade away entirely. Roman had come back… but only for a moment. Just a moment, a flicker of his fear and distress. Remus ground his teeth. “What about _Logan?”_

Dee was quiet for a moment, and then his voice came from across the room. “I’m sure he would return, too. It’s only a matter of writing it down. Remus…”

Remus grasped at the pillows, holding one to himself like a tether to reality. “What if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“Who?”

“ _Roman,”_ he hissed as he gripped the pillow. The bed dipped ever so slightly, and Dee sat next to him. Remus felt tears threaten to fall. “What if he’s angry with me? What if he doesn’t want to see me?”

“I hardly think—"

“What I did…” Remus whispered into the dusty, cotton pillowcase. “What I _did_ … that night… before Logan died… what I…”

“What you did provided the doctor with a semblance of comfort,” Dee said gently. He brushed his fingers through Remus’s hair, soft and loving as he spoke. “Roman was gone. Virgil was gone. So was Patton. We were the only ones left for him. What you did have him a moment of peace before he jumped.”

Remus still clung to the pillow. “Maybe Roman is angry that… that we let him jump.”

“We didn’t know that he would.”

“But—"

“ _Remus…_ nothing we said would have changed his mind.” Dee let this sink in… and then kissed Remus’s hair. “Do you want me to do it? I can write.”

“No,” Remus said as he threw himself off the bed and sniffled. Tears made his vision blurry and he scrubbed at his face tiredly… but he went to Thomas’s office, nonetheless. “I can do it.”

Patton was sitting on the bed, petting Thomas’s hair. The young man had been suffering from nightmares… which was unsurprising. These stories had started so light and picturesque. Now they hurt and cut deeper and deeper. Having Patton next to him seemed to help. Virgil was standing by the wall. Remus took his seat at the computer and put his hands on the keys. He hesitated.

“I can do it,” Dee offered once more, a soft voice in the dim room. Patton and Virgil said nothing. They knew where the story had stopped. Patton looked troubled. Dee stepped forward, only half-visible in the light of day. “I can write it, Remus.”

“Or I could,” Patton offered softly, his voice so damned gentle. “If it would help.”

“No,” Remus sniffed again. His fingers already started working at the keys. The rhythm was calming, and he felt a little better after a few minutes. “I can do it.”

+++++

Patton, despite appearances, was not exactly a homebody. He did go out and do things… but he was also happy to sit and play with Clara while Virgil worked. He was also a businessman, despite his desire to distance himself from the company. And he was more than happy to accompany Virgil on a walk should he have to travel for work or pleasure. Yes, Patton could be an active man.

But he was also fragile.

He was sitting with Clara in his lap, carefully trying to brush her coiled hair. Virgil was watching him closely. If Patton so much as sniffled, Clara would be whisked out of his arms and Patton would be sent to bed. His fever was gone and the ache in his lungs had subsided… but Virgil still worried.

“You don’t know!” He said to Patton the night before. “Anything could go wrong! She could get sick and _then_ where would we be?”

Patton always sighed and settled for a kiss on the forehead goodnight. Virgil had taken to sleeping in the armchair. It was lonely without him. Maybe he would relax from his anxiety and come back to bed that night. _Maybe._

“Father,” Clara said. She called him _Father_. It made her sound so mature… and she was only six years old. Patton was still getting used to it. He hummed affirmatively and she played with the pocket watch Virgil at given her. “When can we go see Uncle Roman again?”

Patton twitched and glanced at Virgil. Virgil said nothing. Patton sighed. “He’s ill, little duck. We’ll visit him when he’s feeling better.”

“When will he be better?”

“Soon,” Patton lied through his teeth. “He’ll be better soon.”

The door downstairs opened, and both men glanced at each other. The shop was closed for the day. Why would someone walk through the door anyway? Patton’s shoulders tensed; were they being _robbed?_ In broad daylight? Virgil grabbed a fire-stoker. Patton watched him. 

_"Virgil…”_

“Can’t be too safe,” Virgil said sternly. He went for the stairs, but the footsteps met him there. Virgil paused, looked a little alarmed, and stepped back. Patton put Clara on the floor and stood.

“Virgil? Love, what’s— Dee?” Dee stepped up onto the second floor, not paying Patton any attention. Still, Patton tried, “Dee, what are you doing here?”

“You,” Dee snapped at Virgil. Virgil practically bristled where he stood, and Dee went on. “ _You_ need to talk some sense into that damned doctor.”

Virgil continued to spark and grimace. “What _the hell_ are you on about?”

_"This,”_ Dee said with a vague gesture to everything, “Has gone on _long enough.”_

Patton stepped in front of Clara and said, “What are you implying, Dee?”

Dee rolled his eyes. “Stand down, Patton, I don’t plan to turn you or your child over to the constable.”

Virgil still prickled where he stood by the stairs with the fire poker. “Why is he here?”

Dee turned on him. “To demand that you _do something!”_

Were Virgil a cat, he’d hiss and scratch. But Patton stepped forward and pulled Dee back and away from him. “Dee. Speak plainly… what happened?”

Dee told them. He told them about Roman and Logan’s predicament. He _started_ to talk about Roman’s health, and Virgil took Clara downstairs. No child needed to hear about Roman’s condition. Not when he was near-death. So Dee told all of this to Patton. He told him about his bout with Logan in the clinic. His near-indecision and his hesitance and how, in the end, Logan had _stayed_.

“He… he won’t go?” Patton asked, a sick feeling in his chest. “But… but the way he _looks_ at Roman…”

“The man is obviously besotted, but he won’t _go…_ is it pride?” Dee asked no one in particular. “Distrust? What on _earth_ is that?”

Patton followed Dee’s line of sight. “It’s Virgil’s coat. Dee—"

“Oh. Well. If he _wants_ to look like a flue cleaner...”

“ _Dee._ What did Logan say? Did he say he wouldn’t go?”

“He was silent,” Dee said with that snarl in his expression. It made his golden-brown eyes turn cold and cutting. Patton felt fear flicker through him when Dee said, “He was quiet and wouldn’t even look at me.”

Patton wrung his hands a bit. “But… but if he _did_ go… wouldn’t Roman feel better?”

_“If_ he goes. Which is why I came here, to get your engraver.”

Patton blinked. “You think Virgil can convince him to go?”

“Not sure. The man is being dense as anything. The _bastard_ … he was so distant. How could Roman fall in love with someone who resembles a statue with all that grimacing?”

“Carved from marble,” Patton said. Dee looked at him.

“What?”

“Carved from marble,” he said again, softer this time. “That’s what Roman told me after they’d first met. He was carved from marble… but crumbling underneath.”

Dee didn’t look impressed. “Were it in my hands, I would have ‘crumbled’ this doctor long ago. Fool doesn’t even know what to do with himself. And now Roman is going to pass away thinking all love is pointless—“

“Stop!” Patton snapped, “Don’t say those things! Logan could be there right now!”

“Oh?” Dee asked with a painfully cool and angry expression. “Is he?”

Patton didn’t think. He went downstairs. Virgil glanced up from where he had Clara in his lap, playing with a new watch. “Pat, love… what’s going on?”

Patton threw on his coat. “I’m going to see Roman.”

Virgil nearly stood and sent Clara toppling to the floor, but he stayed seated, looking at him with wide eyes. “But your fever—“

“I feel better, dearest. You know I do,” Patton stepped forward and kissed Virgil, and then he went for the door. “I’ll be home soon!”

“Don’t stay long!” Virgil called after him, a desperate ring in his voice. Staying long would get Patton sick. Staying long would mean something had gone terribly wrong. Patton would go, see that Dr. Stein had changed his mind, and go home.

He was proven wrong very quickly.

On his way to the apartment, Patton was startled to see Logan on the street corner. He wasn’t going to the apartment. He didn’t look rushed. He was standing against the wall of a brick building. He smoked and looked irresponsibly calm. If not for the troubling look in his eye, he might’ve been mistaken for a thoughtless loiterer.

“Dr. Stein,” Patton said as he approached, his voice harsher than he meant it to be. Logan looked up from where he’d been contemplating the cracks in the pavement. Patton stopped in front of him and spread his hands wide. “What are you _doing?”_

Logan grimaced and took his pipe from between his teeth. “First Mr. Dee, and now you… Mr. Moore, I—"

“You do realize that Roman is _in pain_ , don’t you?”

Logan frowned harder. “Mr. Moore—"

“Don’t you care?” Patton asked desperately. “Don’t you care _at all?”_

Passersby were looking at them. Several people whispered and watched, but Patton didn’t care. Logan, however, did care. “Mr. Moore, try to compose yourself.”

“Consumption isn’t a _calm_ matter, Dr. Stein. I believe I have every right to be upset!”

Logan stopped hard, his expression going from frustration to fear. “What… consumption? No one ever said anything about consumption.”

Patton laughed and it wasn’t a happy sound. “He’s been sick for a _month,_ Dr. Stein. Did you assume him to be dramatic?”

With that, Logan’s expression darkened again, the windows to his soul shuttering closed and blocking oncoming emotion. “He _is_ dramatic, Mr. Moore.”

“Dramatic enough to fake the blood that comes with his cough?” Logan twitched and looked away. Patton didn’t back down. “I know Roman. I know just how melodramatic he can be. But I also know I’ve _never_ seen him this sick. And he needs you. So why—“

“He doesn’t need me,” Logan snapped angrily, “Plenty of other doctors have tried to help him and he’s been uncooperative. Believe me, I’ve heard their complaints.”

“But—“

“The only thing Mr. Kingsley _needs_ is a dose of reality!”

With a sharp _CRACK_ , Logan’s head was spinning. He stumbled to the side, pins and needles prickling at the right side of his face before blood rushed to the skin. He held a hand to his cheek and looked at Patton with wide, alarmed eyes. Patton had _slapped_ him. And he didn’t look remotely sorry as he glared at Logan.

“You are _not_ the only doctor in this city, Logan Stein. I came to you because you’re the best, but if you continue shove your head into your fireplace to hide away, I hope you catch fire and the devil takes you down, because that man is _sick_ and _lonely_ and _wants to see you!”_ Patton took a deep breath, shuddering and angry. For a moment, Logan remembered his broken knuckles and split lip. He remembered the bloody mess of the man he’d pummeled. Patton could very well beat him senseless. Patton’s hand lowered. “I… am a reasonable man. I won’t yell. I won’t... coerce you. If you insist on being blind, fine. I’ll find another doctor. But I pray — yes, I _pray_ — that you are taken by any and all ailments. That you suffer the loneliness that Roman suffers. Because he _loves you,_ Dr. Stein. Don’t you _dare_ deny it. You’ve denied it enough. Let that fester in you.”

With that, Patton stepped back. People around them stared and murmured. Logan swallowed thickly. He’d thought it was all a ploy. A few lies thrown into the air in a ruse to draw Logan to the apartment. Roman was sick. Roman… Roman loved him.

From the first moment, Logan probably knew that. He probably knew all along. But he’d denied it. Maybe because of fear. Maybe because he was a secret masochist. Either way, Roman was sick. And he’d been hiding from him for too long. Could Roman ever forgive him? Maybe. Only time would tell.

Patton turned and walked away, already finished with the conversation. Without thought, Logan knocked the ash out of his pipe and tucked it into his coat. Then he followed Patton.

“Mr. Moore…”

Patton didn’t look at him. “What?”

“What are his symptoms?”

Patton slowed and gave Logan a hard look. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to trust Logan… but that wall was quickly broken down and he was fluttering like the mother hen he always was. “He’s feverish. A _high_ fever. He’s lost so much weight, it’s like he’s fading away… and he can’t keep down much food. If anything, I think he’s been stomaching broth and not much else.”

Logan nodded, his mind already flickering from best to worse conclusions. “And you mentioned coughing?”

Patton nodded and opened the door, letting him into the apartment. “It sounds just _horrible_. So painful.”

Logan stepped inside and saw Remus at the foot of the stairs. He was curled into a small, small ball, his face hidden in his arms. When people stepped into the apartment, Remus looked up. He looked wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes and his hair more riotous than usual. As soon as his eyes locked on Logan, he scowled.

_"Y_ _ou.”_ He stood and pointed an accusing finger at Logan. “ _You!”_

When Remus started to charge, Patton put his hands against Remus’s chest. Surprisingly… Remus stopped. He stood just a bit shorter than Patton, his eyes sharp and glaring daggers… but he didn’t push him aside. Logan hung up his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

“Dr. Stein has come to _help,”_ Patton said softly. Remus still glared. Logan ignored it, and Patton nodded toward the stairs. “Go on. We’ll wait here.”

Logan started for the stairs, only to have Remus reach out and snag his wrist. Rocking back on his heel, Logan looked at him. Remus didn’t glare. He just looked scared. 

“Please,” he said. Just that. “ _Please.”_

Logan gently took his hand away. “I’ll do what I can, Mr. Kingsley.” He went upstairs, opened the door slowly, and grimaced. The air smelled stale. It was hot and smoky. Had they opened the windows in the past month? Logan’s eyes fell on the bed. Roman was sheltered under the blankets, his eyes closed and breathing a rasping, shallow sound. Immediately, a flood of emotion overcame him; fear, anxiety, and so much _love_ it almost hurt.

Logan’s chest ached; who did he think he was? Why did he think he could escape this feeling? This fitful adoration? It followed him like an ever-present rain cloud. Like poetry that hung in the air after being read aloud. Logan felt overwhelmed with _hurt_ … he’d left Roman to his suffering. He’d been horrible. How could Roman still love him the way Dee and Patton said he did?

He set his bag on the floor, sat down with him. He was thinner than Logan remembered. Pale like a lily… but with rose-blush in his cheeks. Logan reached out and brushed his hair from his forehead. Roman’s eyes fluttered open… and he smiled. Those eyes held that same spark that Logan remembered seeing the first time they met. That blind, intimate desire. How had Logan forgotten it? How had he assumed it to be folly? His thumb brushed over Roman’s cheek, and Roman sighed happily.

“ _Dr. Stein,”_ he whispered in that hoarse voice. He should be angry. He should be frustrated that Logan took so long. He should be indignant… but Roman smiled. “You came.”

“I’m sorry,” Logan said softly. He brushed his thumb over Roman’s cheek again, feeling the salt of his sweat. Roman blinked slowly, a bit confused, and Logan looked away. “I’m sorry I didn’t…”

“You _came_ ,” Roman breathed happily. Despite the fatigue. Despite the fever. And despite the blood on his hands, he smiled. “I wanted… I wanted to see you. One last time.”

Logan felt a painful jolt in his chest. “This is hardly the last time we will meet, Mr. Kingsley. It’s why I’m here.”

Roman coughed, wheezed, and Logan forcefully pulled him up. Sitting up would help him breathe easier. He needed to open the windows. Consumption… Logan wracked his brain for possible solutions. Consumption, unless caught early, was a death sentence. And even if it was caught, there was no sure-fire cure aside from folk remedy and prayer. Logan ran down the list of treatments he knew; fresh air, clean water, warm blankets…

When Roman managed to stop coughing, Logan took the bloody kerchief from his hand and cupped his face. “Mr. Kingsley. When was the last time you bathed?”

Roman’s brow furrowed with thought. “When… when did I…?”

Logan sighed and laid him back down. Then he went to the door and called downstairs, “Start some hot water!”

“Hot water?” Patton’s voice was a little startled. Presumably, he only associated hot water and doctors with birth. 

“For a bath,” Logan reiterated. A few minutes passed. The door creaked open and when Remus poked his head into the room, he dropped lavender soaps onto the floor. Then he slid back down the stairs. Logan heard the kettle whistle. It would take time, but this would help. When Patton came up with the first big kettle of water, Logan caught him and said, “Fresh bedsheets, too. It’ll help.”

Things were careful from there on. Logan pulled the large tub by the wall further into the room. Close enough that he could help Roman to it. Patton brought several pots of hot water, the steam fogging his and Logan’s glasses as they poured it in and stirred it.

When the tub was full, Logan went back to Roman and helped him sit up. Roman coughed weakly. “Dr. Stein,” he wheezed, “If I didn’t know better… I’d say you were trying to undress me.”

Logan worked on unbuttoning Roman’s shirt. It smelled terrible. A bath would do him good. “I am, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman swayed where he sat, and Logan kept him upright more than once. Roman coughed again. “So bold… good lord, I want to have you. I’d love to have you. But I can see straight. I can’t—" he coughed and spat blood into his kerchief. “What was I saying?”

Logan swallowed thickly and pulled Roman’s shirt away. He was thin. Thin enough that his collarbone jutted out oddly. Logan frowned. “You want to _have me,_ Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman’s eyes opened wide. “I said that out loud?”

Logan hummed and knelt, working on the button of Roman’s trousers. Roman put a hand on his head, almost like he needed to know where Logan was while he worked. “Doctor… Dr. Stein—“

“You smell, Mr. Kingsley. And if I’ve learned anything from years of school,” Logan said sternly. “Is that a bath can do wonders for one’s health.”

Roman grimaced. “I smell?”

Logan helped him to his feet and Roman’s trousers fell to the floor. Logan was a Doctor. He’d seen the male anatomy before. This was just another patient. He slung Roman’s arm over his shoulder and walked him to the tub, helping him put one leg over the edge and then the other. Roman sat in the tub of hot water, his eyes glazed over and tired as he laid back.

With careful hands, Logan took the lavender soaps that Remus had left, and started to scrub. He’d never bathed a patient before. Doctors weren’t nearly so involved. But this was Roman. _His_ Roman. He needed help, and Logan was more than happy to give it. After leaving him for so long, it was like making up for lost time.

Logan had just finished washing Roman’s feet when Roman’s eyes snapped open. “Wait.” Logan stopped. Roman looked at him with wide eyes. “What about the woman?”

Logan looked around the room oddly. “What… what woman?”

“The woman. _Your_ woman,” Roman said listlessly. Logan stared at him. Was the fever getting worse? Maybe it was the hot water. Roman blinked hard and said, “Evelyn. Emery.”

“Emily?” Logan asked, a little confused. Roman slapped his hand on the water. Logan was effectively splashed and soaked. 

“ _That’s_ the woman!”

Logan took off his glasses, wiped off the excess water, and put them back on. “What _about_ Emily?”

“I thought,” Roman murmured as he rested his hands on the side of the tub. His fingers hung on the lip of the metal like it would keep his head above the water. “I thought… you and she…”

Logan went back to work, taking Roman’s arms and scrubbing one at a time. “Our relationship — if what we had could be considered such a thing — was born of mutual convenience. She needed someone to hold. I needed someone to hide behind. It was a mutually selfish exchange.”

Roman looked at him for a long while, his hand reaching out to touch Logan’s arm. Logan looked at him, seeing the vulnerability there. He was literally laid bare and fearful, an aching glint in his eye. “I saw you.”

Logan’s throat clenched; a hint of fear dripped onto his tongue. Adrenaline tasted like metal. Logan swallowed it down. “When?”

Roman’s eyes went a little distant. He coughed, stirring up the water as he tried to cover his mouth and breathe. Logan put a hand on his shoulder, helping him sit up a bit. When Roman could breathe, he sat back again. “In St. James… with Emily. I saw…” Roman touched his fingers to his lips. His fingertips were shiny and red with blood. Logan wiped it away carefully, scooting close to the tub to tilt Roman’s head back and wipe away the blood from his lips. Roman touched his shoulder. “You hid behind her? With a desperate embrace?”

Logan stayed with him for a long while, his hand trembling where he cradled the base of Roman’s skull. “I… was afraid to be seen. Looking at the object of my affection so bluntly.”

Roman blinked. “The object of your affection.”

Logan looked down, then away, then back to Roman. “Yes.”

“So you kissed her,” Roman whispered, as if he needed to verbally confirm, “To hide from your feelings. What an astoundingly backwards way of thinking.” Logan frowned, and Roman smiled. “But I suppose I’m guilty of it, too.”

“Kissing a woman to avoid recognizing your own emotion?”

“No!” Roman coughed hard, leaning away from Logan before leaning back in. “Convincing myself… that it was never… meant to be.” He looked up at Logan. “Is it? Meant to be?”

“I don’t believe in fate,” Logan said sternly. Roman blinked slowly, undeterred. Logan cupped his cheeks and held those foggy eyes in place. “But I believe in the here and now.”

There was a pause, and Roman’s expression turned a bit worried. “And… what of Emily? You aren’t hiding behind her anymore?”

“No. No, not anymore. Now, I’m here with you. Where I should have been all along.” Roman’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, only to fall into a fit of coughing. Logan sat back and away from him, letting Roman cough into his personal handkerchief until he could breathe again. Then Logan continued working. “As for Ms. Franc, I believe she’s leaving London.”

Roman looked at him with those tired eyes. “Is she coming back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you miss her?”

Logan looked down at where he had Roman’s hand in his own. He dipped it in the water, rinsing off the soap bubbles before bringing it back up. He laced their fingers together and looked Roman in the eye. “Not really.”

Roman’s gaze softened, and the bath continued in a companionable kind of quiet. The layer of sweat and sickness was scrubbed away from every inch of Roman’s body, and when he was done, Logan went to kneel at the head of the tub. Roman had fallen asleep, his head resting back against the warm copper while Logan worked.

“Mr. Kingsley?” Romans’ eyes fluttered open and he looked at Logan blearily. Logan took a towel and placed it on the floor before he worked some water into Roman’s hair. “I’m going to wash your hair now.”

Roman reached up a hand like he was going to stop him. “I… I can…”

“Close your eyes, Mr. Kingsley.” Roman did, and Logan worked a lather into his hair, scrubbing through locks that curled lovingly around his fingers. He worked quietly, admiring the way the water turned pale and murky with soap. Roman’s shoulders relaxed against the tub, and his breathing turned slow. Logan continued to massage through his hair, working slow handfuls of water through his hair bit by bit.

After a while, Logan slid his hand down the column of Roman’s neck, his fingers pressing down on the sides of his neck and into his shoulders before drawing back up to his scalp. Roman moaned, low and content, and Logan carefully kept the soap from his eyes. “I need to rinse your hair,” Logan said, his voice a little gravelly. He cleared his throat and said, “Hold your breath.”

Roman took a breath and Logan pushed his head down under the water, washing the soap away. Roman came back up with a gasp and coughed several times. Logan helped wipe the water from his face, then went to the wardrobe to find bedclothes.

“Why weren’t you in a nightgown, Mr. Kingsley?”

Roman grimaced and scrubbed hands over his face. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Logan frowned and helped Roman up, patting him dry before giving his hair a good toweling. Roman stood, dizzy but not coughing, long enough for Logan to ease the nightgown over his head and down over him. He let Roman put on his small clothes himself and went to make the bed. The used sheets (heavy with sweat) were thrown into the basket to be washed and Logan made the bed himself. Roman leaned heavily against the wall, watching with a strange expression.

“Are you always so hands-on?”

“No,” Logan said softly. “Not at all.”

“So I’m special,” Roman concluded with a haughty smile that seemed much more like him. He sagged a little where he stood, only pushing himself back up with Logan came to retrieve him. He let Logan put his arm over his shoulder. “Dr. Stein… you don’t have to do this. You’re not my maid. You’re not at my beck and call.”

“I know,” Logan murmured as he helped Roman lie down. Then, he opened the windows and the shutters. A cool, late summer breeze came through. The room felt a little less stuffy. Roman coughed… but didn’t bring up blood. Not this time. Logan sat with him, passing a hand through his wet hair. “How do you feel?”

“My chest hurts,” Roman groaned miserably. He reached for Logan, clawing at his arm and bringing him close. “Tell me the truth. Tell me if I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying,” Logan lied.

Roman blinked up at him, his eyes glinting sadly. “I said the _truth_.”

“Do you have to die?” Logan asked desperately, his hands coming up to cup Roman’s face and force their eyes to meet. “What logic says you must? Who says that this is the end?”

Roman stared at him for a long while. His lips, tinged red with flecks of blood, parted around a breath. His eyes flickered down to Logan’s lips, then back up. “Have you been reading poetry again, my darling doctor?”

Logan lowered his eyes shamefully. “I’ve… I’m afraid I’ve… _missed you_ , Mr. Kingsley. And no one is to blame but me.”

The air in the room stirred. The stuffiness was replaced with cooler, fresher air. Logan saw the pallor of Roman’s cheeks. The fatigued circles under his eyes. The hopeless smile on his lips. Logan wanted to kiss it away. To make him laugh like he used to. To make that smile last forever. He could kiss him… Roman would let him. Logan didn’t. He didn’t because this was hardly the time. Roman needed to recover and forcing months off starved affection onto him was hardly the way to achieve recovery.

Instead, he took out his spring-loaded blade and bled Roman’s left arm. The blood dripped onto a waiting cloth, and Logan let him bleed for a good minute before bandaging the wound. Roman looked dizzier by the end of it, his green eyes glinting in the lamp light.

“It’s… cold,” he whispered, soft and sleepy. Logan smiled at him, and Roman smiled back. “Oh, I love that. I love it.”

Logan quirked an eyebrow and pulled the bandages tight. “Love what, Mr. Kingsley?”

“Your smile. It’s like a secret. Something you rarely share with the world.” Logan gave him a spoonful of soothing syrup, and Roman didn’t even try to fight him. He swallowed the medicine and then reached out with his good arm and pulled Logan’s sleeve. Logan shifted closer and Roman took his hand. “Don’t leave.”

“You should rest, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman gripped him tighter. It wasn’t much, considering he hadn’t had a proper meal for at least a week, but he held fast, his expression a little frantic under the fatigue. “I don’t… I don’t want to be alone. Not if this is my last night.”

“It isn’t,” Logan assured him. He had no right to guarantee that. But he did anyway. “You need to rest. And recover.”

“Dr. Stein,” Roman rasped through that hoarse voice. “Dr. Stein, I--”

“Hush,” Logan brushed his hair from his eyes. It was drying quickly with the breeze coming through the window. The tips were already curling up, soft and warm where Roman lay so frightened and vulnerable before him. “Go to sleep, Mr. Kingsley. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Please,” Roman moaned, “Please don’t leave.”

Loan hesitated; was he going to sit and watch Roman gasp out his life? Or would he rather go downstairs, fall asleep in a chair, and wake up in the morning with a different kind of guilt in his stomach? The questions were uncomfortable and neither option was easy. Logan looked at Roman and held his hand carefully.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured. Roman gave him a breathless smile, and Logan smiled back. “But you need to rest. You need to regain your strength.”

Roman blinked at him. “It still hurts,” he said, “My chest. It feels so tight. Like I can’t breathe.” Logan shushed him again, running his fingers through Roman’s hair. That seemed to soothe him, and he closed his eyes. “Dr. Stein… Doctor…”

“I’m here.”

Roman’s eyes cracked open and his voice was no more than a rasping whisper. “Logan.”

Logan paused his ministrations. His hand was trembling a bit. The last time Roman had used his name, it was when Logan had introduced himself. And after that… he was only ‘Dr. Stein’ and nothing more. Roman had him. He was caught in that place, in that moment, and he didn’t dare back away. “Yes.”

Roman’s hand flexed in his and tightened. Their fingers laced together. Roman looked into his eyes, the green so terribly, terribly bright through the fever. “Logan… don’t leave me with regrets.”

Logan wetted his lips. He glanced at Roman’s lips, then back up. Roman had to have noticed. He didn’t say anything. Logan’s mouth felt dry. “Roman,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

_“Roman_ ,” he tasted the name on his tongue, and it was so perfect. Like he’d been born to whisper it, like a secret, like a confession. Roman was his priest. Roman listened, ready to forgive him. And Logan held his hand like his life depended on it. “Roman, I… I--”

Roman’s green eyes shone like emeralds in the light. His cheeks were rosy with fever or flush. His lips parted around words or desire. He spoke, and the heavens held their breath to listen. _“Yes_.”

Logan leaned forward. When their lips met, his eyes fluttered shut, feeling the faintest suggestion of a sigh against his mouth. Roman didn’t taste like honey. Roman tasted like blood. Coppery and briny… chapped lips that were warm but plush under Logan’s own. It was different from kissing Emily. Emily had never leaned up into him like this. Emily never put a hand on the back of his neck, dragging him closer. Emily never made his stomach twist into knots like this.

Roman broke away for a moment, taking a quick gasp of air, only to pull Logan back down into another kiss. Logan was more than happy to be taken, kissing Roman slow and deep while he hardly held himself up with one arm. His mouth was hot, the tip of his tongue burning against Logan’s before he was drawn in again. Roman kissed at his bottom lip, his teeth grazing over the skin and biting down ever so softly when Logan tried to lean back. Logan kissed him again, a trembling feeling working its way down his body as he tried to give Roman anything he could possibly want.

“I love you,” Roman breathed against his mouth, desperate and hoarse and so frightened it nearly hurt to hear. Logan looked down at him, seeing the emotion that burned in his eyes. “I love you. I was scared to _say it_ because… because I thought you’d leave. And I’d never see you again. But you’re here. This is the last chance that I’ll… I’ll _ever_ have... I love you so much, I…”

“I know,” Logan breathed, his voice catching on tears that he refused to let fall. Roman reached up, holding their faces close as Logan closed his eyes. He felt so bitter and angry with himself. “I… I knew. I wanted to believe it wasn’t true. That you’d never feel this way about… about someone like me. And I…”

“Logan…”

“Please,” Logan looked up, kissed him, and spoke with trembling lips. “ _Please_ , don’t… I love you. Roman… I _love_ you. I’ve been… such a fool, I…”

“Stay,” Roman begged him, his voice desperate and pained. “Please stay with me.”

“I won’t go anywhere. I’ll be here,” Logan promised, his hands fisted in Roman’s blankets. He dropped his head to Roman’s chest, his eyes closed tight as he choked on the tears. After all this time… all the indecision… Roman Kingsley was fading. And it was Logan’s own fault for being so fearful and stubborn. He felt Roman’s hands in his hair, combing through the locks as Roman breathed slow and deep. Logan gritted his teeth.

He slid off the bed, going to his knees and resting his elbows on the mattress. Roman was asleep, taken under by the morphine in the syrup. If he went in his sleep, it would be peaceful. Logan folded his hands together… and started to pray.

He was not a religious man. He had _never_ been religious. But Roman believed. And if there was any God out there, if there were angels or miracles, then they would have to listen. They would listen to the prayers of a man who was far from pious. They would hear him begging. _Pleading_ for Roman Kingsley’s life. One life among thousands and thousands that deserved a chance. Hundreds of thousands of lives that made up London… and countless others that made up the entire world. And Logan was begging for one.

The life of the man he loved.

“Please,” he whispered as he took Romans hand and held it. He didn’t know if he was crying for God or Roman himself. Or maybe just the world. Give him _one_ thing. Just one. He’d begged for his mother, and she never returned. Now Roman? The world couldn’t take him, too. “ _Please_ ,” he gasped, his words breaking and choking. He was a doctor, but he was next to useless when pitted against consumption. Still, he cried and begged and whispered and prayed… but no one replied. The heavens didn’t open and reveal some grand light or miracle. Roman’s breathing was slow. Each breath was shallow. He looked so peaceful. Logan touched his face. He still felt warm. “Please,” he said to anyone or anything that would listen. “ _Please…_ don’t take him from me… not when I’ve only just… _not when I_ …”

Logan draped himself half over Roman Kingsley, crying into the blankets while he waited for a miracle. He didn’t believe. He didn’t _believe_. But he wanted to. He wanted so desperately for the odds to be beaten. He clung to the blankets, listening to each rasping, uneven breath. He held Roman’s hand and _prayed_.

Against the closed door, Remus Kingsley buried his face in his hands. He sank to the floor, a crumbled body against the cold, hard wood. Dee stood over him without any device or way to help him. No one could help this. Not this fear or this anguish. The pain that comes with the loss, the fear that ushers it in… and the inevitability of borrowed time itself.

Still, they prayed. They hold against hope that Roman would wake in the morning. They asked for their cries to be heard. That the pain would be relieved. They begged, and no replies came. Roman slept, and Logan buried his face in his chest, ready to fall apart entirely if the time came.

If… or when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consumption, the wasting sickness, was near-incurable for years. It wasn't until the late 19th century that actual sanitariums were organized to house and care for the thousands of people that suffered from the disease.  
> Fascinating, hmm?
> 
> See you next chapter!  
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes


	13. Ghosts of the Given

Rain was not an uncommon occurrence. It was more like an old friend that came knocking and asked for too much of a favor. Time, energy, your patience… it took it, never said thank you, and left your socks damp. And then it returned in the morning to ask for more. Thomas was beginning to understand why people in England could be so irritable and cranky. He’d thought maybe it was _him_ , because he was _American_ , and he wouldn’t really blame them if that was the case. But no, it got _worse_ on rainy days.

The Duell Estate was no exception.

The rooms were darker, and the low light of the lamps wasn’t nearly enough to sustain healthy vision. The air was cold, and the old radiators weren’t enough to keep the house effectively heated. Thomas stayed in bed that rainy night, his blankets pulled up and brow furrowed with thought.

He’d cried when he read Roman’s story. It hurt and it felt bitter and it felt like a wrenching stab wound. The ghosts had watched him break down. They watch him stand up and throw his chair across the floor… and they watched as he went to bed and pulled up the covers without a word. No one spoke. It had been quiet when the rain came. And the rain came with its constant favor-asking and Thomas had nothing left to give.

He laid in bed with Patton sitting next to him. Maybe Patton’s fatherly instincts just _never went away_ because he stroked Thomas’s hair. It was soothing. It made Thomas feel small. Small and manageable. Almost like everything had just been a bad dream and Roman Kingsley didn’t _really_ die. Not then. Not like that.

Against the wall, Remus leaned heavily. He looked frustrated. Broken. Thomas didn’t blame him. After two solid hours of silent reading followed by angry, aching crying… Remus spoke.

“He’s not here.” It wasn’t a question. The other men in the room were quiet. Dee looked displeased, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Remus blinked slowly, and Thomas saw his mustache twitch unhappily. “He’s not… I thought if anything would bring him back, it was that damn _confession.”_

“And the prayer,” Thomas whispered, his voice hoarse from the tears. Patton looked at him sadly, but Thomas didn’t return the gaze. He stared at the floor. “He didn’t even _believe…”_

“When you’re about to lose someone,” Virgil said quietly. “You become religious _real_ fast. You learn to ask for things you have no business asking for. Like money if you’re destitute, or life when you’re dying—"

“Or comfort.” Patton said, a full-stop to the train of thought. The room was quiet again. Thomas curled down in the blankets a bit more, and Patton petted his hair. A soothing, repetitive motion.

Remus’s lips curled and he growled a bit. “This is ridiculous. He should have _come back_ by now…” he glanced at Dee and fidgeted. “Unless…”

“He _does_ want to see you,” Dee said without pause. “Perhaps we haven’t said _enough.”_

“Like Logan,” Virgil piped up readily. Everyone looked at him and he shrank a little under the pressure. Patton gestured for him to continue.

“Go on, love.”

Virgil tugged at his coat sleeves a bit and mumbled, “Well… they were a bit of a package deal, they? Gotta assume… if Logan doesn’t come back, why would Roman?” Virgil shrugged and started to trail off, “I came back for Patton. So. I… _assume_ …”

Remus shifted where he stood. “So… I’m made to reveal his dark and dreary past? Building up the moments of despair when sex and pleasure have run out? That’s no fun at all.”

Dee looked at him for a long while. “Darling. Is _any of this_ fun?”

“It was,” Remus muttered, almost to himself. “It… _used to be_. It was fun, spinning the story… and then the thread turned coarse. It’s digging into my skin.” Dee didn’t say anything to that. He lingered against the wall, a dark shadow against the already dim room. Remus stepped close and curled into him, his eyes far away and voice strangely soft when he spoke. “I remember… it was a while after Roman died. A year or two. Anyone and everyone could see the difference in him. He was… he _really was_ carved from stone.”

Thomas closed his eyes. He didn’t get up to type. Someone else could do that. For now, he hid his face in the blankets and listened. Patton stayed with him, a gentle hand through his hair as Remus spun something new. Something darker. Something blue.

+++++

“A good dinner and plenty of rest. Call on me in the morning,” said Logan, “Should the fever worsen.”

Clara sniffled and nodded, leaning into Virgil’s side. Virgil, ever the doting father, rubbed her shoulder and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders. Despite his dark and serious exterior, Virgil looked ragged. Like if he wasn’t careful, he’d come down with something himself. Logan glanced at him… but said nothing. He got up to leave.

“If there’s nothing else you need…”

Virgil looked at him. “Wha—you’re leaving? Just like that?”

Logan looked at him. There was something in Virgil’s eyes. Emotion. Some kind of want. A fretful fear. Logan didn’t know how to react to it. He blinked slowly. “Your daughter has a fever. She should rest. I’ll be on my way…”

“Stay for a drink,” Virgil said, already reaching out to take Logan’s wrist. Patton stood from his own chair, standing Clara up and walking her to her room, no doubt going to tuck her in for a bit of rest before dinner. Logan wanted to leave. He didn’t need to see this domesticity. He didn’t need to feel the concern and compassion. He wanted to go home and sleep. But Virgil held fast, a strange expression on his face as he said, “C’mon, Logan. Just a drink. For old times’ sake.”

Logan hesitated… then begrudgingly acquiesced. Virgil took him to the parlor, sat him down, and went to pour him a drink. 

“Scotch?”

“No ice,” Logan hummed as he set his bag on the floor. Virgil returned with a small tumbler of golden-brown liquid that burned. Logan took it. But didn’t drink it. Virgil stood in front of him with his own drink in one hand and the other in his pocket. He looked around the room awkwardly.

“It’s big, isn’t it?”

Logan stared at his glass. “The scotch?”

“The _house_ you dolt. The house is big.” He glanced at the walls of floral wallpaper. The gold accents on the light fixtures. The cart of expensive spirits. He sipped his drink. “Patton picked most of everything. I think he likes decorating.”

Logan didn’t look up. “And you don’t like it?”

“It’s bright for me. But Patton likes bright. And I love Patton.” Logan was quiet and Virgil rocked on his heels a bit. “It’s fine enough, ‘suppose. Nice to have our own bedroom. Nice waking up in the same place, rather than having him walk to and from the apartment.” Virgil stopped short. He looked at Logan. He took another drink. When the silence stretched out a bit longer than ‘too long,’ Virgil spoke again. “Have you been back?”

“To the apartment?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” Logan tipped his glass a bit, watching the light bounce off the scotch. He didn’t drink. “I haven’t.”

Virgil nodded thoughtfully. “Too many memories.”

Logan stood and held out his drink. “I think I should take my leave.”

Virgil looked at him with that sad, pitying look. “Logan…”

“I have some work to do at the clinic.”

That was a lie. There was nothing else he had to do. He went home every day to an empty clinic. A cold bed. A hollow feeling in his chest. There was nothing and no one to fill the space. Apparently, Virgil thought holding him hostage would fight off the feeling. It didn’t, but Virgil _tried._

“Come _on,_ you haven’t even had your drink. Sit down. We can talk.”

Logan almost wanted to decline. To go back to his clinic and sit quietly for the next several hours. But he didn’t. He sat down and took the drink when he was handed back to him. He considered the drink.

“What would you like to talk about?”

Virgil twitched and looked at his own glass. “Anything really. You’ve been so distant lately. I feel like we haven’t spoken in ages.”

“I’m a doctor. I’m busy.”

Virgil gave him that Look. “Logan… you’re shutting yourself off. People are…” he stopped, swallowed his pride, and said, _“I’m_ worried about you. Ever since Roman—“

“Don’t.”

Virgil paused. He took a breath and set his glass on the drink cart. Folding his arms over his chest, he sighed. “Ever since…” Logan looked at him sharply, and Virgil didn’t _say it…_ but it still hurt. “Ever since, you’ve been getting farther and farther away. When was the last time we talked? When was the last time we just visited? _As friends?”_

Logan thought for a moment, his eyes tired and emotions washed-out. He was a piece of elastic pulled too far, shot and unable to snap back into shape. He looked down at his drink, his eyes flickering in the light. Then he lifted his eyes and straightened his glasses.

“What… what did we used to talk about?” He asked. It felt like there should be _feeling_ in the words, but he just felt so damn _empty_. _All the time._ Still, he looked at Virgil. “What kind of things… did I say? What did we discuss?”

Virgil’s silver eyes softened. “Anything, Logan. You said anything you wanted. Don’t you remember?”

“I…” Logan looked back down at the scotch. “I remember. Being so _relieved_ to be in your presence. And now… now it’s like I’m coated in a layer of snow. Everything is distant. Cold. I…” _I miss him._

The words went unsaid, but they hung in the air nonetheless. Patton entered the room, a bright, overcompensating light with his smile. He came close and touched Logan’s shoulder.

“Dr. Stein! You should stay for dinner. I insist. We’re having a roast tonight.”

Logan opened his mouth to decline, and Virgil piped up before he had a chance. “Brilliant idea, love. Don’t rush off. Stay for supper, won’t you?”

Logan blinked up at them. His drink was warm by now. He had no real _desire_ to stay… but he would. He’d stay and make sure that Clara was given her food and put to bed for the evening. He would be goaded into staying for after-dinner drinks, and he’d nod politely when he was told stories. But he didn’t smile. He never smiled. Because he couldn’t _feel_ it.

After Roman died, he didn’t feel much of anything.

+++++

Logan disliked funerals. He disliked the way that the weather seemed to know that someone died. He disliked it when it was strangely sunny during the funeral, like the heavens were happy for the loss. He disliked it when it was rainy and the skies wept for another perished soul. No matter what happened, it hurt.

He listened to a religious man say religious words. He watched people pray and bow their heads. He saw Patton, standing stone-faced at the front of the church, his weeping daughter in his arms. He saw the tears that rolled silently down Patton’s face. It ached, but it was still far away. Like it wasn’t really _real._

Virgil’s coffin was lowered into a grave. It was toward the edge of the cemetery, far from the church. Virgil wouldn’t have cared. He was just as dry and dismissive as Logan when it came to religion. Really, the whole service seemed to be for the good of the people around them. A small sliver of relief when it came to losing a loved one.

They were “going to a better place.” They were “at peace.” They were “in the arms of God.” It made people feel better. But not Logan. It left him lonely and bitter. First, Roman was taken. Now his brother. Why couldn’t it have been him? If possible, he would’ve bargained his life for Virgil’s. Virgil had things to _live for_. A child, a lover… a home and business. Logan had a clinic. A cold, empty clinic that clicked and knocked in the dead of night. 

He wanted Roman back. 

He wanted _Roman_ back.

_He wanted Roman back._

“Dr. Stein,” a voice called to him, cool and distant in the mist and rain. Logan glanced up from where the sexton continued to throw heavy, wet soil over the coffin. Dee approached from the mist, standing like a specter with his pale skin and dark clothing. Logan looked behind him. He saw Remus taking Patton into his arms. They embraced… and didn’t let go. Dee spoke, and Logan’s attention was drawn back to him. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Logan said numbly. 

It still didn’t feel like it was really happening. The infection had moved quickly. His usual remedies didn’t work. He had failed the people he loved all over again. He watched the sexton with Dee for a while. One more shovel of dirt after the other… Virgil was buried slowly. Somewhere near the chapel, Roman’s coffin was buried deep.

Then, without warning, Dee put a hand on Logan’s shoulder. It was a kind gesture. One born of compassion where words seemed to fail. Logan took a deep breath… and it shuddered out. Dee squeezed his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Like it helped. Like it _mattered._ Logan stared down at the plot of dirt.

“I couldn’t…” he started, stopped, and swallowed the words. Dee was gentle.

“I know. No man can best death. Not when it cheats so well.”

Logan grimaced. “I should’ve been able to help him. He’s been having problems with his lungs for _years_ and… had. He… he _had_ problems.”

Dee kept his arm around Logan’s shoulders, the solid weight of his hand keeping Logan tethered to reality. There was so much sadness around him, there wasn’t any room for anything else to build up. He couldn’t be thankful for Dee’s words. He couldn’t be angry that Virgil was gone. It was all numb. A mixed-up, hollow feeling. Dee pat his shoulder, and Logan sagged under the weight of his hand.

At Roman’s funeral, Dee had been busy consoling Remus. There was nothing they could have done. Nothing Logan could have done to stop consumption. It was a sad matter-of-fact situation. Death came and Logan couldn’t stop it. None of his medicine was strong enough. And it left Logan all alone during the funeral, shaken and shivering from the loss. One moment, they had been in love. The next, Roman was on his deathbed.

Living with years of that loss… and now Virgil was gone, too. Logan wanted to regret being distant. He wanted to be angry that he hadn’t reached out. That he hadn’t _tried harder_ … but he just felt empty.

Dee leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Dr. Stein. Should you need someone to speak to… I’m certain I could lend an ear.”

“No, thank you.” Logan’s hands were fisted in his pockets. He stared at the grave as the dirt filled in. His throat felt tight, but he didn’t cry. His lungs burned but he didn’t shout. He stared, and he saw nothing. “I’m alright.”

Dee’s hand in his shoulder squeezed. “A beautiful lie, Dr. Stein. But a lie nonetheless.”

Logan didn’t argue.

+++++

Over several years of semi-interested friendship, Logan had learned that Patton Moore was a busybody. He twittered about wherever he went, asking people how they were and if their families were well… Logan couldn’t understand how one man could be so open and kind. _Especially_ after losing Virgil.

It was clear that losing Virgil had changed Patton… he seemed softer around the edges. Less like he’d become warmer and more like he was fading away. His natural smile disappeared and in its place was the face that time had given him. Wrinkles, graying hair, those tired, tired eyes… he looked exhausted. But still, he smiled. Logan hated it. He also admired it.

Everyone loves a paradox.

Clara appeared in Logan’s office on a sunny afternoon. She was newly married and now with child. When she came to him with health concerns, he knew exactly what it was. She’d seemed relieved and happy… she was glad to start a family with her husband. A good boy, from what Logan remembered. He would take care of her.

Now, she walked into the clinic with a belly big with child. She moved a little slow, a tad uncoordinated and uncomfortable, and Logan came to offer a hand before he closed the door.

“Miss Moore— my apologies, _Mrs_. _Lyle,_ this is a surprise.”

Clara laughed and sat down with Logan’s careful help. “You’ve known me so long, Dr. Stein. It’s alright. And honestly… I think I’m _still_ getting used to my husband’s name. It’s so odd, being a Missus when you’ve called me ‘Miss’ for so long.”

Logan sat down across from her; his hands folded calmly in his lap. “I trust things are going well.”

“I’d suppose.” Clara rested her hands on her stomach. “I think I’m getting bigger by the day. Soon I won’t be able to walk.”

Logan blinked. “I’ll put you on bed rest before long, Mrs. Lyle.”

Clara smiled thinly. “I’m ready to hold my baby, Dr. Stein. Can’t you make him come sooner?”

“Him?”

“I’m tired of just saying ‘the baby.’”

“I hope you’re not disappointed, should you have a girl.”

With a polite laugh, Clara shifted the way she sat. “I won’t. I’ll just be happy to _have_ them.”

For a moment, they were both quiet. She had no appointment with him. No set meeting. So why was she here? Logan adjusted his glasses.

“Is something the matter, Mrs. Lyle? Is something giving you cause for concern?”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve no dislike for your company, but surely, sitting in my clinic isn’t the greatest use of your time.”

Again, Clara gave a polite laugh. “You underestimate how much I value our conversations.”

“Ah,” Logan nodded. “So you want to talk about your studies. It must be difficult, not being able to travel and attend classes with the others.”

“Dr. Stein.”

“Ma’am?”

Clara’s smile turned sad. “I’m not here for myself.”

Logan’s chest seized and he glanced at her belly. “Are you experiencing complications?”

Clara shook her head. “It’s my father.”

Logan blinked. “Your father.”

“I’m _worried_ about him. He says he’s fine in that big house all by himself, but I _know_ he’s lonely. And I don’t think it’s good for him to be all alone.”

Logan stared at her. “I’m failing to see how I can help, Mrs. Lyle.”

“I’m…” Clara paused, sighed, and said, “I’m wondering if it’s possible for a man to be weary all the way down to his soul. Is it physical? Or all in the mind?”

Logan knew that fatigue. That damned _heaviness_ that came with sorrow. It wasn’t hurting him, not in any way that left visible scars. It simply left him looking pale and distant, like a ghost hovering from room to room. He took a breath. “It’s difficult to say.”

“Could you speak to him?” She asked, leaning forward as much as she could. She reached out and he took her hand without thought, holding it loosely as she said, “I’m afraid he… he’ll just wither away.”

Logan felt something prickle in his chest. Something like jealousy. Or plain hurt. No one was there to worry about him. Virgil, his only family, was no longer there to be concerned. Ever since Roman’s funeral, Remus had been distant. Logan hadn’t seen him in what felt like years.

Now Clara looked at him like he was her last hope. Logan held her hand a bit gentler. “Alright. I’ll speak to him.”

She thanked him, looking close to tears as she did so. He closed his clinic for the day, went to Patton’s home, and knocked on the door. Patton met him with wide eyes and a surprised, strained smile.

“Dr. Stein,” he said with that soft, tired voice. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“May I come in?”

Patton stepped aside, allowing him into the house. It was quiet. Quiet enough that every footstep echoed off the walls. The floors creaked and sighed under them, and it was a welcome accompaniment. Patton took him to the parlor and poured a drink before Logan bothered to ask for one. It was hardly two p.m., but Logan didn’t tell him to stop. 

“Your daughter is concerned for you,” Logan said bluntly. At the drink cart, Patton blinked and poured the drinks.

“Oh?”

“She’s convinced you’re going to wither away.”

Patton handed him a glass of fine, expensive brandy. Logan held onto it while Patton sat down and twisted his glass in his fingers. “I eat well enough.”

“Not physically,” Logan said lowly. Patton knew what he meant. He was just being obtuse on purpose. “Apparently, she thinks that your sorrow is going to be the death of you.”

Patton smiled flatly and raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Logan said on instinct. They drank. The glasses emptied fast, and Patton went to refill them. Logan watched. “Are her fears sound?”

Patton clinked the glasses together, his eyes going a little distant behind his glasses. Then he smiled and resumed his task. “If they were, what would you do?”

Logan blinked slowly. “Nothing, really. I can’t imagine what I _could_ do.”

“Put me in an institution?” Patton asked as he handed Logan his refilled glass. There was too much brandy, but he took it anyway. Patton sat down. “I miss Virgil. I’m certain I always will. You know the feeling.” Logan drank. He didn’t answer. Patton smiled sadly. “We are the lonely ones. The ones that were left behind. Is that too bleak a perspective?”

“No?” Logan swallowed and looked down at his empty glass. He still felt empty. The alcohol sit hot in his stomach. He remembered drinking after Roman died. He remembered drinking enough to get sick. It didn’t feel any better to pick up the glass again. He frowned at the bottom of the tumbler. “I think it’s realistic.”

Patton smiled and crossed his legs. “What about _you,_ Dr. Stein? Will your sorrow be the death of you?”

“Might be,” Logan murmured to the bottom of his glass. “Probably.”

Patton’s smile turned softer. “Let’s talk of pleasant things. Maybe we’ll feel better.”

Neither of them spoke. Neither one remembered what ‘pleasant’ felt like. They stared at one another, unsure of how to interact. The minutes ticked by. Logan’s head felt heavy. He closed his eyes, and he felt Patton take his glass. A blanket was draped over him. For a little while, he felt at peace. Patton moved around the room, giving the house a sense of _life_. It was better than the quiet of the clinic. Better than the deafening silence of an empty bed. There, in Patton’s home, he felt relaxed for the first time in years… and he slept soundly.

+++++

Patton’s death was sudden. Unexpected, really. Well… Logan had anticipated something. He’d felt that things were changing… but still, the jarring message of “Patton was found dead in his home” still rattled Logan where he stood.

He attended the funeral. He listened to the soothing prayers and hymns. He watched Patton slowly disappear in the grave, one shovel of soil at a time. It hurt. But not enough to make him break. 

He _wanted_ to break. He wanted to cry and shout and kick and demand an explanation for it all. But he couldn’t. There was a weight on him, dragging him down and making him feel weary of the world. The hair at his temples was gray with time. His eyes were getting worse. His hands shook a bit when he worked. He was tired. And sad. But he didn’t cry.

Remus and Dee were at the funeral, too. They stood together, black and serious where the stood, bitter and shrouded in shadow. Clara was barely held up by her husband, crying inconsolably while Fredrick held their newborn baby. She took the words of comfort from others. She listened to prayers. And still, she cried. Even when Patton’s coffin was entirely covered in dirt and there was nothing left to see, she cried.

Logan almost envied the ability. He didn’t say anything to her. He didn’t go to Remus or Dee. He pulled his hat low, put his hands in his pockets, and left. Back to the clinic. Back to his empty bed. He would lay down. He would wait for the sadness to overwhelm him. For the inevitable _snap_ before the floodgates broke. But it never came. The sadness had already been there all along. He was too numb to cry.

+++++

It was a rainy November night when Logan walked up the front steps of the Duell house. His shirt was soaked and so was his vest… had he forgotten his coat? Apparently he had. He knocked on the door, and a young girl answered it. She gave him a careful once-over… and frowned.

“Can I help you?”

Logan hesitated. Why was he there? He wasn’t sure. He sniffed and said, “I’d… I suppose… I’ve come to see… Mr. Kingsley.”

The girl glanced over her shoulder, clearly unsure if she should let him inside. But after a moment, she stepped back. Logan trudged into the house, and she closed the door behind him. She excused herself, telling Logan in no uncertain terms that he was supposed to ‘stay right there’ while she fetched Mr. Kingsley.

So Logan stood in the vestibule, dripping on expensive carpets and sniffling sadly. He should’ve just gone to the bridge. Why did he stop? Why did he bother? Nothing was going to change.

He lifted his gaze from the floor when he heard feet on the stairs. Remus Kingsley saw him, and he paused on the steps. Silence stretched out between them, and the poor maid looked terribly anxious. She was probably regretting letting Logan inside. Logan was regretting knocking. Remus… Remus regretted _something._

Remus, where he stood on the stairs, regretted never reaching out to Logan earlier. He saw the doctor in his home, wet and trembling from the cold. He saw the exhaustion and desolation in his eyes. Remus rushed down the stairs and took Logan’s hands.

“Doctor… Dr. Stein,” he said, unsure of what he wanted to say. What would one say to a man who looked like he was waiting for death like a friend? Remus looked into his eyes desperately. He had no quips at his disposal. No violent or sensual remarks that could be made. He squeezed Logan’s fingers. His hands were shaking. “Your hands are like _ice_ … what… where’s your coat? Why are you…?”

Logan blinked slowly, looking down at their joined hands. “I’m… I’m not sure why I…” he stopped, met Remus’s eye, and his eyes went watery with unshed tears. “I’m not sure why I’m here.”

“I do,” Remus said softly. “I know why.”

Logan looked at him hopelessly. “Do you?”

Remus led Logan to the sitting room, putting him in front of the fire to warm him up. Then he told the maid to bring Logan a towel. When Logan was sitting and staring into the flames, toweled off and slowly drying, Remus looked at him. He looked thin. Empty. Like someone took a glass ornament and held it to the light, watching it shimmer… only to drop it on the floor, just to see it shatter. Logan Stein was a man at the end of his rope. From the moment Remus saw him, he knew… this was the last time Remus was going to see him alive.

So he touched Logan’s arm gently and told him to wait. He went upstairs, up to Dee’s office, and closed the door gently. _Gently_. That made Dee look up from his paperwork with an odd expression.

“Who was at the door?”

“Dr. Stein,” said Remus. Dee’s eyebrows made a run for his hairline… and he set down his pen.

“You look distraught. What’s wrong with him?”

“Help me,” Remus muttered as he reached out for Dee. There was a hint of hesitance… then Dee stood, took his hand, and let himself be led to the bedroom.

There, Remus sat down and took out his shaving kit. Dee understood exactly what they were doing. So Dee helped him shave. They combed his hair carefully. They worked brown shoe polish into the white of Remus’s hair. When they were done, he was effectively changed. Then, Remus went to the wardrobe, picked out a red vest (Dee _knew_ it was Roman’s once) and he carefully buttoned himself up. Then, he looked at Dee with a pained expression.

“How do I look?”

Dee felt his chest ache. That was _Roman’s_ voice. He’d never hear it like that again. Not from Roman himself. Even so, Dee smiled. “Just like Roman.”

Remus nodded and went back downstairs. Logan was exactly where he left him, staring into the fire with those dull, lifeless eyes. Remus lingered in the doorway behind him. How long had Logan been so listless? How long had the hair at his temples been white with age and fatigue? How long had his shoulders slumped from their usual, stiff lines? Too long. Too long, since Roman had gone.

Remus stepped into the sitting room, and Logan’s eyes flicked up from the fire. He saw Remus… and his eyes went wide. He stood with a start, his lips parted around an “oh” that could’ve almost been relieved… or maybe horrified. Remus hoped it was the former. He smiled.

“Hello, my dear doctor.”

Logan let out a breath. It wasn’t a sigh. No, this breath shook out of him like he was being choked. It rattled, and his eyes glistened with tears, and Remus tried his damnedest to keep his brother’s smile. Logan stepped forward, reaching for him, and Remus met him halfway.

“Roman,” he gasped, broken and trembling as he cupped Remus’s cheeks. “Roman…”

Remus held Logan’s hands to his face, kissing his cold palms. Would the doctor try to kiss him? Remus would let him. If it would get rid of this sadness. If it would keep him here. He would let him.

Logan didn’t. He pulled Remus into a torrid embrace, holding him close as he cried. Remus had seldom seen Logan cry. Once, when Roman was ill. Twice on his deathbed. And thrice at the funeral. And not a single moment since. No, Remus had distanced himself after that… too afraid to see the man his brother loved. Because if Logan looked into his eyes, he would see _Roman’s_ eyes. And Remus knew it would hurt. It was a bitter feeling, Logan Stein clinging to him and crying. His brother was truly, _deeply_ loved… and now the good doctor was broken. Remus hugged him tightly, his face tucked into Logan’s neck.

“Logan,” he whispered, reaching up to pass a hand through Logan’s graying hair. “Shhh… it’s alright, darling. I’m here. I’m here.”

Logan’s hands grasped at his vest, leaning back to look Remus in the eye. Remus braced himself, ready for the oncoming kiss… only to have Logan kiss his cheek with trembling lips. A sigh ghosted over his ear as Logan stood with him, cheek to cheek.

“You… you look… _just_ like him.”

Remus winced. Of _course_ the doctor would know it was him. Comfort could only go so far when the doctor didn’t believe in ghosts or miracles. Still, he didn’t step away. So Remus kept running his fingers through Logan’s hair.

“I’m Roman for the evening, Doctor. I’m yours. What would you have of me? A slow dance? An intimate evening?” _‘The Last Supper’ came to mind._

Logan sniffled and stood back. He held Remus’s hands. Or maybe Roman’s. Neither man was sure. Then he indicated to the chairs. “I’d like to talk. For a while. It’s been… it’s been so long.”

Remus hesitated, but he smiled Roman’s smile. With Logan’s hand in his, he sat down in the armchair and Logan sat next to him. For nearly four hours, they sat there. They spoke of current events. Of the Queen and new technology that was springing up overnight. They spoke of summer… nights at the Summer House they remembered and regretted. They spoke about Clara and her baby. Virgil and Patton… they missed them. They missed _everyone_ so terribly. Remus steered them back to fonder topics, insisting they not ruin a good evening. Logan agreed and he spoke of springtime of their younger days, before Roman passed away. The secret box of poems that Roman hid away, full of love letters to his doctor (Logan had found them after a short time). And the soft, quiet moments that they would lay in bed, looking at each other.

Logan smiled. Just a bit. Only a fraction, but it was more than Remus had seen in over six years. Their hands mingled, hanging over their armrests and holding onto each other with lax contentment. Logan looked at the dying fire… and he smiled.

“I miss you,” he said. He looked at Remus… at _Roman_ … and his voice cracked when he repeated, “I miss you _so much.”_

Remus smiled sadly, and his expression threatened to break. He squeezed Logan’s hand. “So do I, darling.”

Logan nodded, like this was understandable. He scrubbed at the tears that started to fall, quick to erase them as he took several leveling breaths. “I want…” he took another deep breath. “I want to see you.”

Remus felt his heart jump up into his throat. “You have me, Logan. I’m right here.”

Their hands fell apart when Logan pushed himself up and out of his chair. Every breath was shaking, those trembling breaths that almost always preceded tears. He made for the front door. “I want to see him.”

Remus chased him, taking Logan’s hand and holding him back. “Don’t…! Don’t— stay. Stay the night. Stay with me. Do you want me? Take me. I’m yours. Anything you want, just—“

Logan stopped, took Remus’s hands, and kissed them. Remus’s words died in his throat. Everything hurt. Nothing he could say would change Logan’s mind. Roman would never say things like this. The illusion was broken… and so was the doctor.

Even so, Logan looked at him with fondness. “Thank you, Mr. Kingsley.”

Remus’s trembled. He couldn’t let him leave. Not like this. “Please,” he said, _“Please—“_

Logan opened the door. Remus felt fused to the floor, unable to reach out and stop him. The door swung shut. Logan Stein was gone. Dee was on the stairs, watching the interaction with a sad glint in his eye. They couldn’t have stopped him. No one could. No one but Roman Kingsley.

And _he_ was already gone.

+++++

Sunlight ushered in a new day. Remus knew better than to expect something great and grand. He felt raw. Exposed and left to dry on the cold railing after a long, stormy night. Logan had left hours ago. Still, he watched the windows. He listened for someone at the door. No one came. Dee went about his morning routine. A quiet “good morning” and a kiss on the cheek. Breakfast. Morning correspondence… then he would go to work. Still, Dee sat in the parlor, his eyes tired and lungs caching from holding his breath. Waiting.

“Darling,” Dee said softly, his hand coming out to touch Remus’s shoulder. Remus looked at him, seeing worry in those deep eyes. They didn’t say anything. But Remus reached for him, pulling him into a kiss that was slow and aching. He needed some sort of comfort. Some way to escape the guilt that clawed up and into him like a parasite. Dee kissed him, and it was like a balm. A soothing aloe over the burns of loss… tea for a throat that was sore from screaming. Darkness, to hide from the bright, bright light. Dee leaned away. “I could stay. I had a meeting with Brampton… but I could stay.”

Remus grasped at Dee’s collar and thought. Would that make him feel better? Dee in his bed, turning his head from those thoughts? Could he run from this sadness the same way he ran from his parents’ death? From Roman’s? From Patton’s? Remus closed his eyes.

“I need… I need to sleep,” he murmured, almost to himself. He scratched a hand through his hair, then itched at his scalp angrily. “I need… to wash this mess out of my hair. To… to boil myself until I’m raw and clean and—”

“None of this is reassuring, my dear.”

Remus laughed, and it caught oddly in his throat. When was the last time he laughed like that? Loud and brazen… when was the last time? The last time he’d felt free enough to do so? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t _remember_ … Remus smiled and pulled at Dee’s belt playfully. “When you come home, I want you to lie with me.”

“I could lay with you now, darling. I could stay,” Dee offered, no hint of regret in his voice. Remus should have said yes. He should have locked the door and told him never to leave. But he didn’t. He smiled up at Dee and saw an equally thin smile waiting for him. “Let me comfort you, Remus. Whatever it takes. Silk, lotions, and oil paints… anything you want.”

Remus reached up and pulled him into a kiss before breathing against his lips, “When you come home, I’ll ask for those things. Now… I… I think I’ll wash the polish out of my hair. Nap a bit. When you come home, kiss me. Kiss me and… and maybe. Maybe things will seem… better.”

“Remus—”

“Go. I’m alright,” he said. He shouldn’t have. He should’ve made Dee stay. He should’ve hidden Dee away. Far, far in the depths of the house. Under the blankets, under a mattress, in a small, protected chest where _no one_ would find him. Remus smiled, and Dee kissed him again. “Go on.”

Dee when for the door, all done-up in his work attire. A fine coat. A new top hat. A cane, should he need to bash someone over the head… Remus trailed after him. Sidling up behind him where he stood at the door, pressing himself to Dee’s back and kissing the exposed skin on the back of his neck. Dee chuckled, holding Remus’s hands where they wrapped around him.

“Do you want me to stay, dear?”

_Yes. Yes, please. Please stay and never leave. Don’t walk out that door. Don’t go out there, where he’s waiting for you. Hindsight will burn in me forever. Regret is the past-tense of indecision. You were right. You were right. Don’t go. Don’t—_

“I’m _fine_ , Dee… I just need sleep.”

Dee turned in his arms, tilting Remus’s head back and kissing him deep and sound. “I’ll come back as soon as I’m able. I’ll hold you, hmm? We’ll talk.”

Remus hadn’t felt like talking the night before. Now he would never get the chance. He smiled a bit… and nodded. “Fine.”

Dee opened the door. He stepped outside, pausing on the pavement. There, at the edge of the street, stood a man. A man with a gun. He looked like a banker. A man with graying hair and wide, horrified eyes. He lifted the gun with a shaking hand. The world moved in slow-motion. Dee took a half-step back, and body tensing as he took a breath, his hand reaching back to keep Remus away. To keep him safe. But Remus was never in danger. Dee was the target.

The gun went off. The sound rang loud, a thunderous _CRACK_ through the air as Remus flinched and stumbled back. The door was left open. Dee’s head snapped back… then forward… and he crumbled to the ground. Someone on the street screamed. People ran and shouted. Remus distantly heard a policeman shouting for the shooter to stop. He couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t _see_ it.

He saw Dee on the pavement. Blood pooling under his head. His black coat becoming a deeper shade… the white shirt beneath turning a tragic scarlet. Remus trembled. He’d never been afraid of death. He’d never been so horrified to see if happen in front of him. It was different when it was Dee. It wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to fall, to hit the ground, to look so pale against the blood. White, white chalk dipped in red, red, wine.

Remus fell to his knees. His throat burned – was he screaming? He might be screaming – he picked up Dee’s lifeless body in his arms. He turned him, seeing the bullet hole in his forehead. His eyes… distant. Dull. No light of clever wit. No spark or desire. He was gone. Remus held his face anyway, his hands wet and slick with blood as he cradled Dee to his chest.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t supposed to be possible. Everyone else was gone. There was no one left for him to cry to… no one left to comfort him. He was the last man standing. And what a _horrible_ thing to be. What a horrible feeling to be left with. Was that how Logan felt the night before? Had he felt alone? Shuddering and broken? But even then… Remus and Dee were there. He’d had one shred of hope. Remus… Remus had nothing. Dee’s mother had died years ago. He was alone. No one left.

Dee would be buried the next day. Remus was numb throughout the whole thing. He didn’t hear the words. He didn’t feel the consoling touches to his arms and shoulders.

_“We heard you were good friends,”_ they said. _“It’s a shame to lose such a dear companion.”_

Dee wasn’t just his _friend_. He was more than that, and no one could know what or why… it almost burned. He couldn’t truly be consoled as a friend. Not like this. Dee was his husband. Dee was the love of his life. The only thing left in the world making it worth living. He loved Dee more than his own life. And now… now there was nothing left. After Dee’s coffin was lowered into the ground, after the prayers had been said and the grave filled-in, Remus went home.

He went home to a big, empty house. He laid in bed that night and felt nothing. A day passed. Two. And he couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He had a fortune to himself… and nothing he wanted to buy. Nothing he wanted to take. He thought of dressing as Miss Dee and going for a walk to Dee’s grave… but he didn’t. He didn’t want to. It was too much effort, and when he looked at himself in the mirror… it wouldn’t feel right. Not if Dee was there with him, telling him he looked beautiful. Not if Dee wasn’t there to help him lace up the corset. Or help him with the rogue. Or kiss him ever so gently.

Remus fired the housekeeper. Then the cook and the maids. He Found a box of rat poison kept deep in the confines of the kitchen. He went back up to Dee’s office, took some parchment, and brought it back to their bedroom. There, in the faint light of the afternoon, he wrote a letter. Maybe a confession. Maybe a poem. He sniffled through the tears and wrote:

_My dearest heart, bleeding and open,_

_I mourn you more than I will mourn the loss of my own life. More than the loss of my own soul. For what is loss, but a pause in movements? A break between song?_

_When I sleep, I hope it’ll take me to where you lay. Beneath the soil, the salt of your earth. I wish for my lungs to fill with it, soil and mud and rocks. For that would be greater than another moment without you._

_Take me into yourself and consume me, raw and real, until there is nothing left of me. Lo, let me tremble into nothing but ash in your wake. Burn me, and I will be yours._

_I want to sleep. To lie in your arms and die with you next to me. To hear your voice as I descend into the bowls of whatever hell awaits us. Sing me a lullaby, dearest. Make the darkness come swifter than a blade._

Remus’s chest was tight. He dropped his pen, and the paper was left on the pillow for someone… _anyone_ to read it. Would Dee see it, wherever he was? Would he take pity on Remus? Probably. Maybe. Or not. Whatever it was, he was already feeling dizzy and sick. His body felt lead heavy. He laid down, a strange, itching feeling working through his stomach. Sickness or bleeding… it didn’t matter. Not anymore.

He thought of Logan. Of those fateful, empty moments before he left the house. He thought of the tired glint in his eyes. The flicker of resigned emotion in his irises. Remus regretted so much. He regretted not being able to convince Logan to stay. For not saving him. He was gone… would Logan ever forgive him? Wherever he went, after the end… would Logan find him? Would he hold a grudge? Remus coughed, and he could taste blood in his teeth. He reached for the left side of the bed. For _Dee’s_ side of the bed. For a moment, he almost felt someone reach out and touch his hand. Almost.

He felt tired. So tired… heavy and so, so exhausted. He’d close his eyes for a moment. He’d sleep through the blood in his throat. Through the failure of his body. He’d sleep and maybe… maybe He would find Dee again. Maybe he’d see Roman, and Patton… and Logan. Maybe he’d be able to apologize. Maybe Logan would never forgive him. He didn’t know.

He slept. And then there were none.

+++++

The room was quiet. Thomas sat at the dining table. He couldn’t remember where the story was when they descended the stairs. He only remembered the pain and ache that came with each part that was told. Remus and Dee were seated on the far end of the table. Virgil and Patton sat closer, more like worried parents than uncomfortable storytellers.

At the head of the table, Remus held Dee’s hand with a white-knuckle grip. “You know,” he said, still low and quiet. The rain outside fell hard, muffling Remus with the weight of thunder. Still, he said, “I wouldn’t blame Logan if he hated me for that night. If it was just one more pinch of salt in the wound… I could understand. If he hated me. And that’s why he wouldn’t come back.”

“I never hated you.”

There was no crash or bang. No slamming or screaming. Just a gentle rush of cool air that made Thomas shiver and turn in his chair. He froze when he saw him. Tall, thin, and wearing smart glasses. His expression was thoughtful… but there was a hurt hidden underneath it. Logan Stein stood still and serene in the room, a bold difference from how Roman had made his appearance. He looked at Remus, and Remus looked like he might collapse in a pool of his own tears.

Again, Logan murmured, “I didn’t hate you, Remus. I never did.” 

“I’m sorry,” Remus breathed, so soft and quiet despite his usual self. Logan looked at him, and Remus shook where he sat. “I’m sorry I—”

“For what, Mr. Kingsley? For giving me a hint of comfort before I jumped?”

Remus’s mouth opened, like he was going to respond, only for it to snap shut. He was at a loss for words. That was surprising, especially for such a flamboyant, loud man. No, he just shrank where he sat, staring at Logan with something in his eyes that looked an awful lot like anguish. Roman _still_ wasn’t here. And now Remus was forced to see the doctor once more with that hopeless, aching look, just like the night Logan died.

Thomas jumped when Logan reached out and put a cold, cold hand on his shoulder. Logan looked at him with eyes that looked like the sea after a storm.

“Young man,” he said, “Do you know where he is?”

Thomas blinked and felt his stomach twist in knots. “Where… where who is?”

Logan looked terribly broken as he whispered, _“Where is Roman?”_

+++++

Logan had been on his knees praying. He’d been praying tirelessly. Religiously, if the irony wasn’t clear. He hoped and plead and cried with his head on Roman’s chest. He’d felt this pattern for hours. The crying, the bargaining, the willingness to trade himself to Roman. But then, if he traded himself for Roman, then he wouldn’t even be able to kiss him. He wouldn’t be able to hold him or tell him he loved him. Either way, he was going to lose.

Something brushed through his hair. Had he fallen asleep? Probably. It might be a dream. A dream where Roman was happy and healthy, dragging him to art showings and poetry publications. He would read to him and they would argue over which word sounded better. Roman would stand in the sun, that damnable, perfect smirk on his face as he took in all the sun’s rays. The wind would stir the air, and ruffle Logan just like that. Like a hand through his hair, over and over.

“Logan,” a voice whispered. Soft, breathy… at worst, it was Remus, coming to kick Logan out of the room. At best, it was Logan’s dream his vision of Roman reaching out and beckoning him out into the fields of tall, tall grass. The Summer House beyond them… the sea cool and crashing wave after wave against the sand. The wind went through his hair again. He heard Roman’s chuckle; the deep one that made Logan’s stomach flutter with butterflies. Again, the voice called, _“Logan…_ ”

With a start, Logan’s eyes snapped open. He felt the weight of a hand on his head, combing through his hair. But no one else was in the room with him. No one but… Logan lifted his head.

Roman was looking at him with those fond, green eyes. His skin was sill pale. The circles under his eyes were still dark. But he smiled. He _smiled._

Logan was up and sitting on the bed in and instant, cupping Roman’s cheeks and looking into his eyes desperately. He was warm… but not nearly as feverish. He chuckled at Logan’s desperation… and didn’t cough. Logan shook with relief. It was a _miracle_.

Still, he went through the motions. He checked Roman’s lymph nodes, feeling the swell under Roman’s jawline. The took his stethoscope and listened to him breathe. He coughed a bit, but it didn’t bring up blood.

“Logan—"

“Are you still in pain?” Logan asked frantically, his hands shaking as he wiped a cool rag over Roman’s forehead, washing away the salt of sweat. Roman smiled at him, and Logan leaned close. “Are you— you… you’re—"

_“Logan,”_ Roman said softly, a relieved sigh in his voice. Logan looked at him with shaking hands, and Roman smiled. “I can _breathe._ ”

Logan fell against his chest, a relieved sob tearing its way through his chest as Roman comforted him. Consumption was almost _always_ a death-sentence. People didn’t _recover_ from this. It was the end. Logan hadn’t wanted to say his goodbyes… and now, he didn’t have to. Roman was here. Awake. Alive. Petting his hair and soothing him while Logan cried tears of pure relief.

“It’s alright,” Roman murmured as Logan cried. “I’m alright.”

Clawing his way up, Logan took Roman’s face and kissed him soundly. Over and over, his cheeks, his eyes, his lips… he was _alive._ Roman kissed back lazily, and he was obviously still tired, but Logan could feel Roman’s smile burning into his skin, branding him. _Property of Roman Kingsley_ in the form of a smile.

The door slammed open and Logan leapt back, nearly throwing himself off the bed while Roman’s arms still reached for him. Remus hovered in the doorway, a strange glint in his eye. While Logan wiped a hand over his mouth — like _that_ would erase that bout of frantic snogging, come _on_ , Dr. Stein — Remus raised an eyebrow.

“I brought a priest,” he said. Logan pivoted to look at him, a bit confused. What on earth was a priest for?

“Two men can’t marry, Mr. Kingsley.”

Suddenly, Remus broke into a wide, knowing smile. “I didn’t think of it last night… but I heard Roman’s voice, so I brought a priest so Roman could give his last confession.” He glanced at Roman and winked. “But it seems it’s unnecessary.” He grinned. _“Good for you,_ Doctor.” 

Logan flushed and sputtered, and Remus turned his gaze on Roman, a smile shared between them. Then, Remus climbed over the baseboard of Roman’s bed, crawling up along the blankets until he could flop himself down next to Roman. Roman laughed, then coughed a bit, and gave Remus a look of fond exasperation. Remus stared at him, and Roman laughed again.

_“What?”_

Remus grinned and tucked himself against Roman. “Stupid little imp. Trying to _die on me…_ ”

Roman snorted and rolled his eyes. “Ah, yes. Now you’ve revealed my plot.” Roman looked at Logan and gave him a wink. “All this effort, just so I can disappear.”

Logan sighed, and it was more relieved than resigned. Roman’s hand was in his, and he lifted it, kissing the back of his hand while Roman watched him with adoring eyes. Logan smiled.

“Perish the thought, Mr. Kingsley.”

Remus trembled a bit where he lay, his face squished against Roman’s shoulder. He cried, but it was quiet. Odd, for such a loud man. But he was relieved. They _all_ were. Roman was well, and it was like the world had sighed and let out all its tension. It left Logan holding Roman’s hand to his lips, his eyes locked on those green, green irises. Roman smiled.

“Dr. Stein,” he said softly, “Would you have married me? Had the priest allowed it?”

Logan closed his eyes. “I would have. If you would have me, Mr. Kingsley.”

Remus’s head popped up and he grinned through a layer of glittering tears. “I know how it could be accomplished—"

“No,” Roman said softly as he relaxed against the pillows. He looked tired. It was understandable. The sickness had ravaged his body… he needed to rest. Even so, he murmured, “Maybe someday. Someday… would you lend me a dress?”

Logan made a face; lend him a dress? Why would Remus have a dress? He looked at the elder Kingsley brother, his eyes catching on the purse of his lips and the coy tilt of his chin while he thought. It all clicked into place. He lived with Mr. Dee. Mr. Dee was married. He’d never seen Miss Dee and Remus in the same room. It was like being slapped in the face with a wet rag.

“Miss Dee?” Logan asked, immediately getting a look from Remus. He smiled like Logan had _finally_ solved a very simple puzzle. Logan hid his face behind Roman’s hand, holding it tight as he whispered, “My god, I would’ve never known…”

Roman laughed, but it was a lazy, sleepy sound. “It’s alright, darling. You’re smart in other ways.” Logan felt his face burn. His throat felt tight. Roman squeezed his hand… when had his grip on slack? “Logan?”

He lifted his head. “Yes?”

Roman’s eyes looked a little troubled. “Are you alright? You went so quiet.”

“I… I’ve never had someone call me that,” Logan confessed. Roman blinked slowly and smiled. 

“Smart?”

_“Darling,”_ Logan muttered it, like it was a secret. Next to him, Remus snorted and laughed, despite the way Roman tried to elbow him.

“Stop it— Remus. Stop. If you keep laughing, I’ll get upset and then I’ll be sick again.” Remus settled down a bit, and Roman looked back to Logan. “I needn’t say it, Doctor. Should it be discomforting, I won’t say it.”

“No, no,” Logan chuckled and shook his head before he kissed Roman’s hand again. “I don’t mind it.”

Roman relaxed. “Good. Good…”

Remus glanced at him. “Falling asleep again?” He wriggled up and twisted his way off the bed, a strange display of flexible limbs as he made his way to the door. “I’ll go dismiss the priest. Unless I should keep him around…?”

“Go away, Remus,” Roman groaned.

“Alright, Alright! I’m plenty busy. Art to make. Poems to write. Lots of things to do. Don’t try to stop me. _Beg me to stay…”_

_“Remus.”_

There was a sharp cackle that followed Remus as he slipped out the door. It left Roman and Logan alone, and Logan shifted where he sat on the bed. It hit him all over again. Roman was alright. He was fine. He was recovering. Perhaps it was a second wind before an inevitable downfall… but there was no proof of this. Roman breathed deep and slow, his thumb swiping back and forth over the back of Logan’s hand. Logan lifted that hand and kissed it once more, and Roman laughed.

“Keep kissing my hand like that and I’ll start to feel like some kind of treasure.”

“You _are,”_ Logan said without thought. Then he felt incredibly stupid. Why did he say that? It was true, he treasured Roman. And he’d value each second with him now that he _could…_ but now he simply felt like an idiot.

Even so, Roman smiled. “Logan,” he said, like he was about to tell him something deep and serious. “I’m glad you came to me last night. I’m happy you stayed.”

“You make it sound as if my company saved you.”

Roman’s smile softened, and he reached for Logan. Logan went willingly, leaning down and taking the kiss that was waiting for him. With Roman’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, he was held in place. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

“You did, darling.” Roman kisses him again, and Logan felt the frightened, near-ecstatic shiver in his voice. “You _saved_ me.”

+++++

“Woah, woah, _wait!”_ Thomas spread his hands wide and gave the room a hard look. Several ghosts were staring at him, including Logan Stein. Thomas sputtered a bit and said, “What— What _is this?_ I thought— his cause of death was tuberculosis! He _had_ tuberculosis! Isn’t he supposed to be _dead?”_

Silence. Everyone at the table was staring. Thomas glanced at Logan. He slowly adjusted his glasses with a sharp, disapproving look. Thomas tucked his hands into his lap shamefully.

“Sorry…”

Logan cleared his throat. “Though it’s true, tuberculosis meant certain death in most cases… there were edge cases. Ones where, despite the odds, people survived.”

“But…” Thomas fumbled for words when Logan turned that pointy look on him again. “But Roman’s immune system was so weak. How…?”

“Chalk it up to the power of lust,” Remus said with a wide smile. Logan gave him a withering look and Remus shrugged. “What? I think Roman couldn’t die without _at least_ a few nights of intense pleasure from the hands of the doctor.”

Logan stood suddenly, his chair scraping against the floor as he shouted with a red face, “That is _none_ of your business!”

Across the table, Patton’s hands fluttered anxiously, like he could calm the flustered discomfort in the room. “Alright! Easy! This… this conversation doesn’t feel appropriate for the table, anyway!”

Remus smiled, but the expression quickly soured. He slid down in his seat and murmured, “It’s not the same as ribbing Roman. Logan gets _offended_ …”

Logan glared, his hands still leaning on the table. “Because you alluded to the _private_ nature of our…” he glanced at Thomas and fidgeted with his glasses. _“Intimate_ activities.”

Virgil blinked slowly. “I’m beginning to think Logan is a prude.” Patton slapped his arm and Virgil shrugged. “What? It’s _true._ Roman wanted him. He wanted Roman. Mutual desire. That’s probably what saved him.”

While Logan bristled and turned an alarming shade of red, Patton held out his hands, trying to maintain peace. “Why don’t… why don’t we chalk it up to love, hmm? Love conquers all!”

Logan stared at him, clearly unimpressed. “Love conquers consumption?”

Patton blinked. “Didn’t it? What other explanation was there?”

Logan hesitated… and then slowly sat down. Thomas felt the tension in the room fade away like mist in the morning. After a good quiet had settled, Thomas put his hands on the table and said, “So if… Roman _didn’t_ die that night… when _did_ he?”

Logan glanced at him, a sad flicker in his eyes before he looked away. “Five… no. Six years later. Consumption is ruthless, and no one can fight it off twice. Not even Roman.”

“That must’ve been hard,” Thomas said softly. Logan watched the tabletop. “Losing him.”

Logan blinked slowly. “It was. And then… Virgil. And then Patton.” The table was quiet. “I lived… eight years without him. And it was agony.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Everyone glanced up at Dee, seeing a dark look on his face. He was staring directly at Logan. “You didn’t live without him.”

Logan’s expression turned pained. “How could you say—“

“You didn’t _live,_ Dr. Stein. We could all tell. When our Roman died,” he said softly, “The light in you died with him.”

Though Logan smiled, it was more bitter than anything. “Mr. Dee… of anything you’ve ever said… that might be the most honest.”

“But before that,” Patton said softly, “Before that… you were so bright. And warm. You were very kind in those years.”

Logan twitched and adjusted his glasses. “Was I cruel otherwise?”

“Not cruel.” Virgil looked at him. “Not _cruel_ … just empty.”

“I was lonely.”

“And we understand that,” Virgil shifted uneasily. “And there’s… there wasn’t anything we could do for you. It wasn’t easy for us, watching you just… fade away.”

Logan looked at the table for a while. “And now… now I’m here. Telling my private history to some young man with no regard to the impact it had on me or others,” he glanced at Thomas. “No offense intended, young man.”

Thomas thinned his lips. “I’m still offended.” Logan stared at him, and Thomas sat forward to say, “I hold _all of these stories_ in high regard. I didn’t go through all of this on a whim. I’ve studied the Kingsley Brothers — and most specifically Roman — for _years_. I didn’t pack up and move to England without thought. I didn’t come here, to this house, for a good laugh. There’s feeling behind this. You were all living people with wants and needs… and my colleagues want to just take your relationship with Roman and sweep it under the rug.”

Logan frowned. “It’s _private._ ”

“But it’s also _fact,”_ Thomas pressed. “I can understand why you were scared back then. I could understand why you were frustrated and hesitant… but times have changed! Love has been like this, passing the limits of socially constructed gender, for thousands of years! And I grew up thinking that it was new and there was something wrong with me… but if I’d known,” Thomas said softly, “If history had been honest. If I’d known my favorite poet had the same feelings. Maybe it wouldn’t have seemed so wrong. Maybe I would’ve have felt so different.

“But it wasn’t honest. Roman Kingsley was labeled a bachelor for the rest of his natural life. Remus and Dee’s relationship was ignored, even if it was well-documented.” Thomas stopped, took a breath, and sighed, _“No regard for the impact_ … this story isn’t a light subject. It started so nice. It drew me in. And now I’m here, feeling this hurt in my chest because I thought that Roman… and you and he didn’t get to say that…” Thomas stopped, wiped his eyes, and didn’t continue. 

Logan stared at him for a long while, letting the words sink in as the rain outside fell steadily. After several minutes, Logan reached out and touched Thomas’s wrist. He squeezed it; his skin as cold as ice as he did so. Thomas looked at him, and Logan’s smile was just a suggestion.

“Thank you.”

Thomas stared at his hands for a bit, and then let out a long exhale. “You had _time_ … it’s just a relief to know that you two had time together. I know I’m just hearing about it. It didn’t happen to me. But it feels so real. It feels like it happened to a good friend, and I’m… just relieved.”

Logan blinked slowly. “I’d suppose. If you’re indeed studying us, it would be difficult not to become invested in the outcome.” He paused, his hands folding together as he thought. “From what you’ve told me, Mr. Sanders—”

“Just ‘Thomas’ is fine.”

Logan twitched and adjusted his glasses. “From what you’ve told me… _Thomas_ … preserving our history is what returns us to this place. And you saw Roman? He was here?”

Thomas nodded tiredly. “Yeah. I did.”

Logan took a deep, tired breath. His next words were quiet. Like they were a struggle to get out. “All this time… and I still can’t find him.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said without thought. Logan looked at him, almost like he was confused by this statement, and Thomas murmured, “I… don’t know how I can fix this. How I can bring him back.”

Remus leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. With one arch of his eyebrow, he said, “We need to keep going.”

Logan looked a little startled by this statement. “You plan to keep talking about our private affairs.”

“Don’t you _want_ to see Roman again?”

“Don’t mock my pain, Remus,” Logan snapped with a sharp voice. Thomas flinched a bit. He was tired. He wanted to sleep… but how could he say that when Logan was still lonely? When Roman still hadn’t appeared? It felt irresponsible to feel tired like this. Logan’s face was stern as he said, “Where is the evidence that your stories have pulled us from beyond the veil? Where is your proof?”

“Where is your _faith_ , Doctor?” Remus shook his head and curled the end of his mustache. “For a man who didn’t previously _believe_ in ghosts, you certainly are skeptical of us in our devices.”

Logan looked away. “Before I died, I was a _doctor_. A practitioner of _medicine_. I built my life on study and fact. All of this is nonsense. All of this…” he paused, and his words faded. Did he know that it was pointless to try and project logic on this situation? They were ghosts. None of this made sense. None of it ever would. And the fact that Roman wasn’t coming back only made it worse.

Thomas leaned back, his head tired and body heavy. This entire situation was exhausting. Next to him, Patton reached over and put a cold hand on his shoulder.

“I know that look,” Patton said with a soft smile. It looked misplaced in this moment, like their story, like their _deaths_ , were nothing but a distant, fictional concept. That wasn’t the case. Thomas knew it wasn’t… and Patton’s fatherly smile was calming. “You can’t solve the riddles of the world without any sleep, Thomas.”

Remus stood from his chair, a dark look on his face. “But, _Roman_ —”

“If he could come back now, he can come back in the morning,” Patton said softly. The tension in the air rose again, like a thick blanket had been placed over the inhabitants of the dining room. Patton took a breath that he didn’t need, calm and cool despite the anxiety and frustration. He looked at Thomas, and his blue eyes were a small comfort. “Thomas. There is enough sorrow in the world, even without us retelling it. Go to sleep.”

Remus started to say something, and Dee took his arm, forcefully pulling him back down and into his chair. He said nothing else. Instead, Virgil was the next one to lean forward and look at Thomas.

“We’ll be here in the evening when you wake. Wouldn’t that be better than straining yourself until the sun comes up?”

There really wasn’t anything he could say about that. He pushed himself up and out of his chair… and caught a look on Logan’s face. There was a sadness there. One that knew he was resigned to waiting. For a solid century, he’d been waiting. And even longer, he’d been searching. Yearning for Roman. And Thomas couldn’t fix that. So he stood and slowly made his way back to his room. He left the ghosts behind, but not the story.

The story, regardless of Thomas, was going to continue. No matter what he did. No matter what he said, the story would still be told ad nauseum. It was the blessing and curse of history. A story could be told a thousand times… but the end would always be the same. History was history and couldn’t be altered after-the-fact.

Thomas laid down and pulled the blankets up. Outside, the rain fell in hushed tones. As if it were sorry for all it asked of him; quiet, quiet rain. Polite against the trauma of the world that came back to the forefront of the history books. Like a blade of legend, tired and rusted, only to be polished years later. The blood weeps to the surface, a symbol of battles a long time passed. But blood didn’t weep here. No, it was just the rain. The same sorry rain that fell on the night that Logan said goodbye to Remus. The same soft rain that falls on a hushed English countryside. The same rain that always falls.

And with the dawn? What comes with that? Happier memories? The soft suggestion of someone at the keyboard? Thomas closed his eyes. He could almost hear it. Someone far across the house, playing the violin. The late father of Roman and Remus? Or maybe it was just his imagination. He breathed slow and deep. And the music filtered through the air like a comforting lullaby. A suggestion of domesticity that never existed in his home.

He could almost hear Roman’s voice, loud and dramatic like Remus. He could hear Logan debating with him. Soft, fond times. Memories of a happiness that lasted for _years_ before Roman had to say goodbye. Thomas clung to that thought. It was better than resigning himself to the sadness of what he’d heard.

In the morning, they would write more. In the morning, Roman Kingsley would come back home. He would come back to _Logan_ … until then, Thomas snuggled down in his blankets. He heard the keyboard _click-tick-click_ slowly. He didn’t turn to see who it was.

Part of him already knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where In The World Is Roman Kingsley?  
> See you next chapter!
> 
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes


	14. Lost Love Letters

_Darling,_

_One day, when I’m gone, I don’t want you to miss me. I don’t want you to mourn me. Despite your lack of faith and despite the distances between and between us, I will be there. I will reach through the veil and cities and thoroughfares and find you. I will not be gone forever._

_When I am gone, I wish for the world to be kind to you. For distances to be short and words to be so painfully kind. When I am gone, I hope your heart feels the same what it has always felt. I wish this for you. Do not miss me. For I am still here._

_When my time comes, stay with me in mind. In heart. In body. Hold me until I grow cold. And let me be buried. When I am no more, breathe and love despite me. Go home, to our bed, and remember my memory, smell my scent, and speak my words._

_Cry, but do not mourn me, darling. I will be here. As I always have been. Love me, and I will love you beyond death. For I know, just as any good Doctor would, that I will not live forever._

_Yours, beyond and beyond,_

_Roman_

+++++

It was a warm morning. One that made the peonies in Patton’s windows droop and call for water. Logan had come to Roman’s apartment early that morning, waking up before dawn and making his way across the city in the dark without thought. There was just so much _desire_ lingering there. A disbelief that trembled in Logan’s every move and breath. Roman was _recovering_ … and that was no less than a miracle.

Logan almost wanted to laugh it off. A _miracle_. He’d begged and pleaded… and now there he was. Alive and glaring at him from bed. Logan listened to his lungs. He felt for his pulse. He delicately felt at Roman’s neck, checking his lymph nodes. All the while, Roman was trying to argue that he was _fine_ and he was healthy enough to get up and traverse the city, looking for all sorts of ridiculous, artisanal troubles to get into. Logan would have no such thing; even if Roman was dressed to go out, he wasn’t _strong_ enough.

“It’s ridiculous,” Roman grumbled, “that you’re holding me hostage in my own home.”

“I’m trying to ensure your complete recovery. I hardly see how this is a hostage situation.”

Roman sighed and looped an arm around Logan’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Stay here with me, today. We haven’t gotten a night alone and I’ve been aching for you for _months._ ”

Logan hummed and leaned back. “I’m afraid I have work to do.”

“Please,” Roman plead softly. He reached for Logan, arching up against him as he moaned, _“Please!”_

Logan kissed him and leaned away, much to Roman’s chagrin. He packed his bag, moving quickly so Roman wouldn’t be able to snare him and pull him back in. “You know I have other patients, Mr. Kingsley. You’ll have to make do without me.”

Roman stared at him from the confines of his blankets. _“Make do.”_ Roman repeated, “Do you want me to pleasure myself while thinking of you?”

 _That_ hit Logan like a bullet to the chest and his knees wobbled where he stood. With a deep breath, he managed to maintain his composure. It had been two weeks since Roman had miraculously recovered, and though he was able to get up, snap witty remarks at his brother, and sing to Logan… he still wasn’t able to walk around much before succumbing to exhaustion. It was a process, helping him gain weight again. And he needed his rest. That meant no strenuous exercise. Even if Logan really, _desperately_ wanted to strain him. By god, he couldn’t go a single night without aching for it. Now that Roman was his and he was Roman’s, it was almost overwhelming, thinking of all they could do to each other. Logan blinked. With. He meant _with_ each other.

“Lo _gan,”_ Roman moaned again, breathless and obviously dramatic in an attempt to rouse Logan’s desire. It worked, and Logan hated it. He turned, seeing the wry grin on Roman’s face where he was sat up and reaching for him. “Please, _please_ , come to bed with me _…_ you said that I needed to rest, and I have. You said I needed to eat, and I have. You said that—"

“I say many things, Mr. Kingsley.”

Roman frowned. “What will it take for you to say my name? Do you have to be in my bedsheets? Tangled in me?”

Logan tugged at his collar and glanced away. “Roman—"

He didn’t stop. He was on a roll. “Oh, would you say my name again? What if I knelt between your legs? Would you pull at my hair and say my name so desperately—"

“Enough! That’s enough!” Logan stepped forward, taking Roman’s face in his hands and kissing him soundly. He pulled back, seeing a dreamy look in those green, starry eyes. Logan huffed. “You are, unsurprisingly, very similar to your brother.”

The look on Roman’s face was a bit startled. “Remus has offered to kneel between your legs?”

Logan grimaced. “No.”

Reaching up, Roman put a hand on the back of Logan’s neck and pulled him down again. One more kiss and Logan could leave. Roman laid back and Logan helplessly went with him. One more kiss and he’d go to the next house call. Roman kicked the blankets away and Logan knelt on the bed over Roman. One more kiss… two more… three… Roman pulled at Logan’s cravat, and Logan sighed.

“Mr. Kingsley, you will be the death of me.”

“Don’t die yet,” Roman chuckled as he pushed Logan’s coat back and down his arms. It fell to the floor with the cravat, completely forgotten. “I haven’t whispered poetry against your skin. I plan to worship each part of you.” He kissed Logan’s neck, his hands sliding down his sides and to his thighs. He squeezed for good measure. _“Each breath is scripture and each gasp is praise…_ good lord, let me—"

Logan felt a blush burn down his face and into his chest. Roman had him. Roman had him wrapped around his finger and he was hopeless from the moment Roman called for him. When he pulled their bodies flush together, Logan could’ve cried with relief. Friction against Roman’s hip and Roman’s own erection pressed to his thigh… Logan kissed him, a shaking arm barely holding him up over Roman. Roman sighed into his mouth.

“Too much sugar in your tea, Doctor,” Roman murmured as he hooked a leg over Logan’s hip. Logan’s breath caught in his throat and he hid his face in Roman’s shoulder. They rocked together slowly, Roman’s voice hardly a whisper in his ear. “You taste sweet.”

“Did you expect vinegar?” Logan gasped, a hot coil in his stomach bubbling and tightening as he reached between them, fumbling at his belt. Roman helped him, tugging at Logan’s trousers as he laughed softly.

 _“Who knew that religion tastes like herbal tea and sugar?”_ He had Logan in his hand, stroking slow and deliberate as Logan trembled and gasped. Roman kisses his temple. _“The salt of sweat and heat of your body… a temple built of flesh and bone.”_

Logan grasped Roman through his trousers and Roman gasped, bucking up into his hand. Logan smiled. “Roman…”

After a bit of struggling to catch his breath, Roman managed to match his pace with Logan’s. _“Break the bounds of dichotomy… your theory and physicality are one and you’re in my hands.”_

Logan laughed and shook his head. “This— _god dammit—_ this poem is ridiculous.”

Roman laughed with him, hot and ridiculous as Logan kissed the corner of his jaw. “I call it ‘Ode to a Doctor.’ I’ll publish it on every street corner.”

Logan growled, “You’re a demon.”

“Must be,” Roman laughed, “To have ensnared a blessed man like you—“ he gasped, and the sound melted down into a blissful groan. Logan had worked his hand into Roman’s trousers. Roman gasped and looked at the ceiling in awe. “What was I saying?”

“Anything. Everything. Tell me what you want,” Logan panted. Their tempo increased. Heat pooled in Logan’s stomach, a red-hot cool tightening, tightening… “Good god… Roman, tell me, tell me—"

 _“This,”_ Roman gasped, _“This is worship. The fire in me and the water of you. The greatest Blessing is your lips on my skin…!”_

Logan kissed him and Roman gasped, a faint whine in the back of his throat as he came, his hips lifting off the bed and back arching as he moaned blissfully. Logan saw the pleasure etched into his face, the desperate furrow of his brow and the “oh” of his lips, a bright red blush traveling from cheek to chest… Logan was helpless to follow, climax shuddering through him as he fought to hold himself up. Roman kissed his neck, murmuring something to him as he panted and fought to slow his racing heart. He felt a little bit like seaweed, wobbling and floating through the ocean. Electricity danced over his skin as he breathed deep. Roman’s lips moved over his skin, and Logan blinked the stars from his eyes.

“What… what did you say?”

Roman’s laugh rumbled in his chest. “I said, I think I’ve ruined you, darling.”

Logan grimaced and grabbed the rag from the bedside table, wiping himself off the best he could. Roman watched with that amused, smug smile. Logan rolled off the bed after a minute, his legs still wobbly as he tucked himself back into his trousers. When he was cleaned up, he redid his collar and cravat and buttoned his coat. Roman watched, biting his lower lip with the damnable smile.

“You should stay,” he said softly. Logan glanced at him, seeing that Roman had kicked off his trousers entirely. Logan’s mouth watered… and he turned away. Roman threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, Dr. Stein! Will you always go red when you see me laid bare?”

“You’re a handsome man, Mr. Kingsley,” Logan went for his bag. “And anyone would blush at the sight of a beautiful, naked man.”

“Don’t leave,” Roman sighed. “Don’t leave. I feel _healthy._ Isn’t this miracle worth a bit of attention?”

“Your recovery is indeed remarkable. But I have other patients,” Logan said again. He went for the door and Roman glared at him. “Don’t give me that look. I have work to do.”

Stretching his arms above his head, Roman arched his back and yawned, doing a languid stretch. He looked like a cat lounging in the sun. Logan felt that prickle of heat in his stomach again… and he was dragged back to the bed like a moth to a flame. He leaned down, kissing Roman slow and deep. Roman smiled and sighed, reaching up for him… but Logan pulled back.

Roman fell back against his pillows. “Ugh… a tease.”

“Excuse me?”

Roman grimaced and threw his arm over his eyes. “You’re a dirty _tease!”_

Logan kissed him again, quick before he went to the door. “I’ll return in the evening.”

“Bring less clothing next time.” That startled a laugh out of Logan, and he shook his head with his hand on the doorknob. Roman watched him with a smile, his fingertips ghosting over his lips like the kiss had left a mark. Roman smiled. “Kiss me. Just once more, before you go.”

Logan rocked on his heels; this could be a trap. But was he about to deny Roman? Probably not. He didn’t have the energy. He went back for the countless time, leaned down, and felt Roman rise up to meet him. With lips and teeth and tongue, Roman branded him, his fingers going up to card through Logan’s hair with such desperation, one would think Logan was heading off to war, never to return. 

“I love you,” he breathed into Logan’s mouth. “I love you.”

Logan smiled, resting his forehead against Roman’s as he murmured, “And I love you.” They held there for a moment, eyes closed and breathing slow, until Logan said, “You’re going to have to let me go.”

“Take me with you.”

“Put on trousers.”

Roman glanced down, like he’d forgotten his own nakedness. “Oh. But if I leave them off, we can do so much _more._ I’d rather keep you here. _Finally_ get you out of _your_ clothes…”

Logan sighed. “You really _are_ like your brother…” Roman stared at him, and Logan reiterated, “You’re a very _physical_ man. Let go, Roman.”

Roman hesitated, a frown on his face, only to slowly, _reluctantly_ , release Logan’s collar. Logan stood upright and handed Roman his trousers. As Roman pulled them on, Logan kissed his cheek.

“Until this evening, love.”

Roman hummed and waved him away. “Yes, yes, evening…”

Logan left the room, checking to make sure his trousers were clean and mess-free before he descended the stairs. Patton was waiting in the living room with a few pieces of parchment, a thoughtful look on his face. That seemed like none of his business, so Logan took his hat from the rack.

“Good morning, Mr. Moore.”

Patton glanced up. “Leaving already, Doctor? You only just arrived!”

Logan hummed. “I’m afraid other people require my attention.”

Patton stood up, worrying his hands a bit. _“Speaking_ of needing your attention…”

“Mr. Moore?”

“I’ve been thinking of… well. Leaving the apartment.”

An odd expression settled on Logan’s face. What did that matter? His stomach clenched uneasily; if Patton sold the apartment, the new landlord would be a stranger. He wouldn’t be able to visit Roman so freely, not unless Roman relocated, too. And _if_ Roman decides to move, would he be farther from the clinic? He would like to stay in the comfort of central London, no doubt… so where did that leave Logan?

“Dr. Stein?”

“Sorry,” Logan snapped himself out of his thoughts. “You were saying?”

Patton’s eyes glittered. “Well… I’ve a plan to move Clara, Virgil and myself into a bigger apartment uptown… something small for a while. Just to have our own space. Then, maybe in a few years… a house of our own. But I’d rather not leave this old building in the hands of a stranger.”

Logan blinked slowly. “I see.”

Patton made a point to gesture at the floors and walls. “But the wood is good! The floors are sturdy. The fireplace takes time to heat the room, but it’s pleasant and cool on hot days…”

“Mr. Moore.”

“The main room is a lovely space. Once all of my things are moved out, there’ll be plenty of room for whatever you’d like. And the bedroom in the back could be made an office…”

“Mr. Moore—"

“And commuting to your clients will be much easier with carriages at the ready! There’s almost always a buggy waiting for a paying customer in this area. It’s a fairly close to the market and it receives plenty of sunlight—"

_“Mr. Moore, please—"_

Patton looked at him. “Doctor, would you—"

“How much are you asking for the space?”

Patton paused and stared. His eyes were wide. His hands were held together tightly. After a moment, Patton stepped forward and put his arms around Logan. “Oh, thank _god…_ I’d hope you’d— oh, thank you. _Thank you_.”

Logan patted Patton’s back awkwardly. “I… haven’t agreed to a price, Mr. Moore.”

Patton stepped back. “Oh, of course! We’ll have to… to settle things up! Paperwork and numbers and such.” He paused then gave Logan a long look. “Dr. Stein…?”

“Mr. Moore?”

“Your _hair,”_ he smiled. Then, as if it was completely natural, he reached out and smoothed Logan’s mussed hair. Roman had been weaving his fingers through it… and Logan didn’t even think to check the mirror. It was odd; he was normally so particular. Where did logic go when Roman Kingsley kissed him? Somewhere out the window, he was certain.

“You know,” Patton’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, “I never said thank you. For what you did for Roman.”

Logan blinked. “I don’t follow.”

Patton smiled and went to the small table in the middle of the room, sifting through his papers while he spoke. “Roman is an old friend… we were school friends in our younger days. I’ve known him so long… I’ve known him through the best and worst times of his family. And I knew who much he disliked other doctors… I knew that he would go to such ridiculous lengths to ignore them.” He turned to look at Logan with a soft, calming smile. “And then _you_ came along.”

Logan turned his hat over in his hands. “You make it sound as if I changed the world, Mr. Moore.”

Patton laughed politely. “No, no! Not the world… but Roman? I think you did.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “He was so set in his ways. Always so stubborn. He didn’t want to _trust_ doctors anymore… but you. _You_ … you seemed to ensnare him. You set a fire in him, Dr. Stein. He was shining in his art again… truly, I think you brought him back from the brink of death.” He looked back to Logan, a desperate, almost tearful look in his eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Stein. For… for saving him. For saving my dearest friend.”

Logan put on his hat. “I didn’t _save_ anyone, Mr. Moore. Roman’s recovery was miraculous, that’s a given… but it was equally due to Roman’s fighting spirit. All I could do was make him comfortable.” He shifted his bag in his hands, looking down at the old, cracked leather of it. He’d felt… so utterly _useless_ when it came to Roman. When he’d been there, a gasp away from death… he couldn’t do anything. He could only pray. Logan took a breath and glanced out the front window, eyeing the sheer curtains and floral stitching. “If anything… I believe Mr. Kingsley might have saved _me_.”

Patton looked amused as he removed his glasses and wiped the lenses deliberately. “Oh?”

Logan blinked slowly, his eyes catching on the light that glinted off Patton’s glasses. “I think I was… resigned. Empty in some ways. Before I met Ro—Mr. Kingsley.” Patton chuckled, like the slip was expected, and Logan adjusted his glasses before continuing. “A glass half-empty mentality is… logical. And I am a logical man. But I think… I think relying on logic made me… cold.”

“Carved from marble?”

Logan glanced at him. “Pardon?”

Patton waved it away. “Nothing. Go on.”

Logan eyed him for a moment… but continued. “I was so set in my ways. So determined in thinking that my life would be spent alone and cold…”

“I know the feeling, Doctor.”

Logan glanced at him. Patton knew that resigned emotion. That heartbreak that was all in the mind. A hope that wasn’t given the chance to take flight. Logan smiled a bit, and Patton returned the smile. “I thought that this feeling. This desire. Was nothing more than a burden… but it isn’t, is it?”

Patton cocked his head to the side. “What an odd question. _Is_ love a burden?”

With a chuckle, Logan straightened his hat. “With the love of a man like Roman Kingsley, it might be.”

“Oh, _Dr. Stein…_ ” Patton’s voice dripped with a syrup-sweet fondness. A lightness in his voice that betrayed a layer of affection. It was like they’d been friends for many years, and Patton was used to his antics. The cynicism of Logan Stein was no match for Patton Moore. And Logan… well, he couldn’t bring himself to mind it.

“Good day, Mr. Moore.”

Patton smiled at him and waved him away, like a parent waving a child off for a day of playing in the park. “Mind how you go!”

When Logan stepped outside, it was bright enough that he squinted up past the brim of his hat. He would have plenty of complaints about the heat in the afternoon. Until then, he was back to his office, ready to receive any number of summonses. He wasn’t able to take two steps out into the street before he heard Roman’s voice.

“Doctor!”

Logan stopped, pivoted, and saw Roman Kingsley leaning out of his window on the second floor, his smile bright and wide as he held onto the windowsill with one hand. Logan nearly had a heart attack watching him. He could slip. He could fall. He could blind someone with that smile of his, so dashing it nearly made Logan’s knees weak. He took off his hat and held it to his chest.

“That’s _dangerous_ , Mr. Kingsley!”

Roman arched a delicate eyebrow and smiled. “You forgot something!”

Logan frowned. He hadn’t forgotten anything. Hat, coat, bag… his shirt was buttoned and his cravat was in place. What could he have forgotten? He wasn’t provided an answer. Roman simply tossed something down from the window. Logan panicked, dropping his bag and hat to the ground as he stepped back and caught the item. He looked into his hands.

It was a handkerchief tied into a knot so it didn’t fly away. When he unfolded it, he could see the name _Roman K._ embroidered on the corner. Why would it have his whole name and not his initials? Logan sighed; of _course_ it had his full name. Remus would _also_ be “R.K.” Logan glanced up at him, holding the handkerchief aloft as if to say, ‘ _What’s this, then?’_

Roman pulled a kerchief from his own pocket, fluttering it in the air as if he were waving to a ship on the horizon. Logan blinked. Then checked his pockets. His kerchief was gone. Roman had taken it. When had he taken it? The little minx was sharper than he thought. And dammit, if that didn’t make Logan love him more...

After picking up his hat and putting it back on, Logan hefted up his bag and glanced back up at Roman. Roman was waiting for him with a smile. One that spelled trouble. It was different from Remus and his reckless, wild grin. This smile was calculated. He knew _exactly_ what it did to Logan. And it made his heart flutter to see that kind of smile.

So he lifted the kerchief to his lips, kissing the fabric the same way a man would stoop low and kiss a lady’s hand. A bow to the Queen would be less intimate. If anyone saw this, or if anyone cared, Logan didn’t mind it. He smiled the lavender scent on the handkerchief. Roman’s scent. It was like carrying a piece of Roman with him. A token to keep him company. It was needlessly romantic. It was so _Roman._ With a smile, Logan the handkerchief into his pocket, watching the way Roman leaned against the window frame.

“Until this evening, Mr. Kingsley,” Logan called up to him. Roman dipped his chin, a coy look on his face. Logan tipped his hat a bit, and Roman’s smile softened.

“Be well, Dr. Stein.”

+++++

“So you moved in?” Thomas asked gently. They had started talking as soon as Thomas woke up. The others were waiting downstairs, allowing Logan the _smallest_ bit of privacy, considering he was a closed-off man. It seemed Logan was still discomforted by this ‘story time’ routine. Even more so with this newest addition to the document… at least the beginning of it.

“I did relocate to the apartment, yes. Now… about the beginning of the document—”

“I’ll delete it. Don’t worry.”

Logan visibly relaxed. “Thank you.”

“So… you had time with him. It’s nice to know that you…” Thomas trailed off softly, his hands tapping the keys without _quite_ pressing them down. Logan watched this from the desk, his eyes tiredly looking through him. Thomas tapped the keys again. “I have several letters that were sent from Roman to a… _undisclosed_ recipient. I have to assume, since they were all very private and intimate letters, that _you_ received them.”

Logan blinked and smoothed a hand down his vest, his eyes narrowed skeptically. “This _private_ correspondence was made _public_ … for what reason?”

Thomas laughed uneasily. “The belongings in the house were donated to the historical society.”

There was a meaningful pause, and Logan’s eyes went a little distant and cold. “I… I suppose that would be the way of things. After Roman passed, Remus took all of his belongings… the apartment fell into disrepair. I never… went back…”

With a little digging, Thomas managed to pull up a few scanned letters. He turned his laptop to Logan, watching him fidget with his glasses as he fought to read what was on the screen. After a bit of squinting, he gestured to the screen blankly.

“What… what is… what is this?”

“Letters,” Thomas said gently. _“Roman’s_ letters… they’re all pretty vague. Very poetic.”

Logan chuckled, and the sound was very welcome in the tension between them. “That is _very_ accurate.”

Thomas was quiet and let him read. “Is… _was_ this letter to you?”

A small pause, and then Logan smiled softly. “Yes. Yes, I remember it.”

Thomas turned his laptop back around, a gentle, hesitant smile on his face as he said, “Could you maybe tell me what it means? I mean. It’s… it’s been up for debate for _years_ in this field.”

Logan’s eyes looked far away. “I’m no storyteller, Mr. Sanders—ah, Thomas.”

“That’s okay! You don’t have to be. It’s just… this poem. This letter. It’s what got me interested in Roman Kingsley in the first place. It might’ve been the launching-point of my study and… ultimately, my _career_.”

“Roman would be _obscenely_ proud to know he instigated such a thing.”

“He was inspiring.”

“He was a _romantic_ , Thomas,” he chuckled, a fond smile on his face. “But that… I’d suppose that was something I always admired in him.”

+++++

_My dearest,_

_Winter comes to us again and I yearn for your constant company. Our distance – so bleak, so far the world from me to you and back and back! I think I’d rather have myself to the snow than be without you another moment._

_Lo, how does the world come to so varied and hued in this season? How is it you bring color to the stark white of snow? The hush of falling snow is cacophony in your wordless praise. The ice is the Inferno against your breath on my skin. Do you know?_

_How much I desire you? How much I desire you in winter?_

_Eagerly, and desperately yours,_

_Roman_

+++++

“It’s _cold!”_ Roman cried from the stairs. Logan put on the kettle and struck a match.

“Go back to bed, love.”

“I can’t,” Roman whined, high and dramatic in his throat. He was bundled in a thick quilt, a small mound of fabric where he huddled himself on the top step. He teetered dangerously, his fever clouding his eyes. “I can’t sleep without you.”

“I’m making tea, Roman. Go back to bed.”

“I can’t. Not yet. Not until you’re there with me. Good lord, it’s _cold_ …”

“It’s December, Roman. Of _course_ it’s cold.”

Roman groaned, then coughed, and slumped against the wall with more vigor. For a while, he went quiet. Logan pivoted, looking through the doorway and up, seeing Roman where he was bundled. His eyes were closed. He breathed slow and deep. Logan added another log to the stove. He turned back to the kettle.

“Love?” He asked.

There was a startled gasp followed by, “Are you coming to bed?”

“I’m putting on tea… and I’ll bring you a cup before I go, hmm?”

“Tease.”

Logan chuckled. “Go to bed, Roman. The mattress will go cold without you.”

“Logan,” he said sleepily, his words muffled where he smooshed his face against the banister. “Do you know? Winter makes me sad and lonely.”

“How sad.”

“I want you. Take me to bed. Tell the rest of the city you’re predisposed.”

Logan glanced back at Roman, seeing his bleary, sleepy stare. His face was flushed, and he trembled. Logan arched an eyebrow. “With you in this state? I’m certain going to bed would be the death of us both.”

“Winter is so bleak… it makes the world go numb, covered in nothing but white snow. White, white snow… pale skin against the stark valleys up north.” Roman’s eyes fluttered closed and he started to ramble. “Holiday in the snow… nothing but… but the northern valleys and fields cloaked in ice…”

The kettle whistled and Logan prepared the tea. Roman went quiet. Logan sighed. “Roman, love, _please_ , go to bed.”

Roman’s responding hum was thoughtful. “I never liked winter. It was so bleak. You changed things. How did you do that? How did you change things?”

“I haven’t changed anything, Roman.”

“Yes, you have…” Logan turned to see Roman staring into open space. “I used to _hate_ winter. There was no passion. No warm. No light.”

“Spring is full of rain. How is that not bleak?”

_“Shush_.” Logan laughed again, and Roman coughed a bit of a laugh before he went quiet. Logan added sugar to his tea. Three spoonful’s while Roman got plenty of honey. Roman’s voice was soft against the quiet clinking of silverware against the cups. “I like when it snows, now. I like when it snows, and the world is covered in white. When you stay here, with me… my favorite season has changed. How odd.”

Logan took up a tray with the tea and walked it up the stairs. He had to step over Roman where he was slumped against the rail, leaving the tray on the bedstead before he returned to the stairs. He saw him there, a mess of flushed skin and mussed hair. A tangle of blankets and a half-asleep sigh. Logan felt something fizzle in his chest at the sight; he was in love with this mess of an artist. This dramatic, exasperating man.

And he was, against all inclinations, enjoying every moment of him. Each morning, waking up to those green eyes. Every night, going to bed and being wrapped in those arms. His laughter, his sighs… his annoying mannerisms at the dinner table. His tunnel-vision when it came to his work. He was infuriating. But he was also endearing. Logan was so caught in him; he didn’t see that he was wrapped completely around Roman’s finger until it was far too late. And what a _wonderful_ place to be: caught in the arms of Roman Kingsley.

After pulling Roman to his feet (“Don’t kiss my neck, Roman— _your lips are too cold…_ ”), Logan managed to put him back to bed and arrange the blankets nicely. Roman glared at him. The only time his face smoothed out and his brow would unfurrow was when Logan held the teacup to his lips and helped him drink. Roman sighed happily and breathed out slow. While he was calm and relaxed, Logan slipped a spoon of soothing syrup between his lips. Roman’s glare returned tenfold, and Logan kissed him.

“Sleep. I’ll be back for supper.”

“Stay?” Roman asked, “I’ll sing. I’ll recite poetry. I’ll let you tie my hands to the headboard with silk scarves—”

Logan checked his pocket watch, and then the note that was given to him just fifteen minutes prior. “A child has come down with a rattling cough. I should go.”

Roman’s hand slipped from his wrists and he laid back. “Go. Save the day.”

Leaning down, Logan kissed his forehead and pulled the blankets back up. Roman made that soft hum, the one under his breath that Logan was _sure_ he didn’t know he was making. “Sleep well. Should I try to check on you in the afternoon?”

Roman blinked sluggishly, that sleepy smile on his face. “No… no, I think I can handle a morning without you. It’ll _ache_ impossibly… but I can handle it.”

Rolling his eyes, Logan took up his coat and hat. He glanced back at Roman, his pale face and hands poking out from beneath the dark, crimson quilts of their bed. His eyes were closed, and his curling hair fanned out across the pillows. The medicine worked quickly, and he was already going to sleep.

Not so long ago, Roman would’ve fought tooth and nail to stay awake and do whatever he pleased. Perhaps Logan could thank the cold. It was hard to stand and paint when it was too cold to be out of the blankets. Too cold to sit at the desk by the window. Too cold to follow Logan through the city on his work, if Logan would let him. So he actually listened, going to sleep and curling under the blankets while Logan pulled on a pair of gloves and went for the door.

So Logan went to his first request. He treated a young man for frostbite and gave him a new pair of gloves, much to his mother’s relief. He set a broken ankle, diagnosed several cases of the common cold. It was late in the afternoon by the time he was able to come to a natural stop at the clinic, and he shivered while he went to start a fire. While he waited for the room to heat, a rapid knocking came at the door.

A young boy passed him a note, stepping into the office and crouching by the fireplace while Logan watched him. He didn’t invite him in or offer the space, but he wasn’t about to let the child freeze. So he let the boy curl close to the firepit, his hands outstretched toward the growing flames while Logan tore open the letter.

It was from Roman. It read like tired, sleepy poetry. He’d go home with the letter. He’d lean close to Roman and kiss him soundly. He would commend him for _not_ going out in the snow to declare his poetry to Logan in person (because he _would,_ because he was _Roman_ ) and he would make sure he was warm and happy.

Until then, he had work to do. He carefully folded the letter. He tucked it into his jacket. And with a smile, he went back to work.

+++++

Thomas smiled as he clicked to the next letter. His hands were shaking. This was insight he’d been wanting for _years_ … but you couldn’t just ask a dead man what his letters meant or who they were for. It was too late and Roman was gone and historians knew the difference between fact and fiction.

 _And yet_ , Logan Stein sat before him. More than glad to explain six years’ worth of letters. Thomas made sure this letter was clear as he pulled it up, and Logan leaned forward to squint at the screen. Thomas squirmed where he sat.

“See… this one. This one was a little… I don’t know. It felt like a really old-time sext.”

Logan stared at him. “I have _no idea_ what that means, Thomas.”

After an uncomfortable laugh, Thomas pointed at a few lines. “It sounded like he was talking about sex. I mean… _‘Only you could reach so deep? Sharper than your fingernails?’_ It just seems like—”

“Fencing.”

Thomas blinked. “Wha—what?”

Logan leaned back. “He was talking about fencing. A ridiculous notion, considering he was _feverish_ at the time. It seemed he was determined to fight through it.” A sad, lonely expression flickered over Logan’s face as he said, “I didn’t condone this behavior… but he was insistent. It took quite a bit of effort to put him to bed.”

+++++

_My dearest,_

_A blade at my throat would be preferable to your absence in my life. Set aside the worries of the world and stay with me, each cut as deep as the next. For only you could reach so deep. The wound of words feels so much sharper than your fingernails._

_How I wish you would come back to me, embrace me, and strike true. Let me fall under you, my dear man, and let me crumble at your feet. No fire of fever can hold out love. No flood or fear can take away the thunder in my chest._

_Take up your lance, love, and tear me down. A man with fire in his chest can know the calmest waters. And the man who weeps can know the smooth stone of indifference. Such a confliction personality, such depth in you… Come to me and let me see you._

_Ever yours,_

_Roman_

+++++

“I have decided!” Roman had said on a bright and cool spring morning. “That I will teach you to fence!” He was standing in the middle of the room while Logan buttoned his vest, a foil held in his hand. The blunt tip wobbled in the air as Roman fought to hold it steady, and Logan paid it no mind. “I learned when I was younger, and I think it’s a noble art. Come, I’ll teach you!”

Logan glanced at him. “You’re sick, love.”

“It may take _years_ ,” Roman continued, completely ignoring him as he put a hand behind his back and kicked the other foil across the floor. It hit Logan’s shoe and Roman held his foil up in mock intimidation. “But I believe I can teach you.”

“Roman—”

_“Remus_ spars with me. Even Dee participates from time to time! He has the most elegant cane-sword.”

“That sounds unnecessarily dangerous.”

Roman stomped his foot and it was clear it sent him off-kilter. “ _Darling.”_

Logan gave him a hard, unimpressed look. “Roman.”

“Never you mind _Dee—_ I’m going to teach you to fence! En garde!” Roman shouted. Logan didn’t move. Roman stumbled to the side, his foil shaking in his hand as he mumbled, “I’m a little… a little dizzy.”

Logan took the foils and set them against the wall. “Come here. Sit down.” He led Roman to the bed and sat him down, feeling under his jaw for his lymph nodes. They were swollen, but not by much. Roman blinked up at him with starry eyes, reaching up to put his arms around Logan’s waist and pull him flush against him.

“Fight me, Logan. Take up a sword like a noble knight.”

“Oh, I don’t think I’d win,” Logan said indulgently. He ran his hand through Roman’s hair, each curl twisting around his fingers lovingly. He carefully laid Roman back down on the mattress. “Besides, I’m not a knight. I’m a doctor.”

“The best doctor. The doctor… knight… the knight-doctor!” Roman’s eyes snapped open. “What an _idea._ ”

Logan twitched; he knew what that meant. That glimmer in his eye meant nothing but trouble. It meant Roman was going to _create_ something, but no one should be creating when they are ill. “No. _No,_ Roman you need to sleep. Not write.”

“But imagine the _story_ of it!” Roman reached up to pull at Logan’s sleeves. “A _knight_ … a man set to kill to protect the crown… turned into a doctor. A man set on _healing_ rather than fighting. Oh, the romance of it. The _drama_ …”

“Yes, yes… think of that. Maybe you’ll dream of it.” Logan pulled up the blankets and kissed Roman’s forehead. “Sleep, love. I’ll be back before supper.”

As if he hadn’t quite heard Logan, Roman yawned and breathily said, “Oh, imagine my Logan as a fencer. A knight in shining…” he snorted. “A knight in shining bathrobes.”

“Now I _know_ you’re delusional,” Logan sighed.

“Not delusional! _Poetic._ There’s a difference.”

Logan went about preparing his spring-loaded cutter, an indulging look on his face when he said, “Is that so? Explain it to me.”

The blade opened, _snapped_ , and clicked shut. Roman winced and hissed. “I see you as a paradox the way you are now. You know this.”

A rag on his arm for the blood, a kiss on his lips for the pain… Logan leaned back and watched the blood catch on the rag. “Do I?”

“So serious and polite. And yet, open… a bleeding wound and heart. How can you look so firm? Stiff as stone on the outside and yet, so kind and loving when exposed?”

Logan was slow to bandage his arm. “Are you asking for the inner-workings of me, Roman?”

“I’m asking what it takes to be a man like you. One that can be so completely impenetrable… and yet so entirely open with the right heart.” Roman looked at him with half-lidded eyes, sleepy but completely focused on Logan. That stare felt heavy as he spoke. “I’ve seen you angry.”

“You’ve seen me frustrated with the postman.”

“Frustrated, fine… but I’ve seen it. And it’s so _different_ from what I know of you. Here, you love with every fiber of your being. In bed, you desire with each breath. Outside, you speak in riddles and it’s not unlike a bout of fencing.”

Logan chuckled. “You’re drawing parallels where there are none, Roman. I have to go. Now—”

“I believe there’s a parallel,” he murmured, so slight and careful it sounded like a secret he was ashamed to share. Logan looked at him, and Roman’s eyes held him hostage. “Would you strike down the world with words? I think you could. You’re sharp enough.”

Logan brushed his thumb over Roman’s cheek. “Perhaps… I should stay with you. You’re worrying me.”

Roman smiled. “And now you’re so honest… only when you’re scared, hmm? It _did_ take consumption for you to tell me the truth.”

“Are you truly going to scold me for loving you?”

“Am I going to scold you for being honest in the extremes?”

“I’m not a liar, Roman.”

Roman softened. “I know that. I know that.” He blinked slowly, and left his eyes closed. “You’re not a dishonest man. I just wish… wish that we could be honest _outside_ this little room. Our own little world in a little apartment in a big, _big_ city.”

Logan twitched; would the world ever be able to accept them as they were? Would the day come where they wouldn’t be afraid or secretive? Logan could only hope. Until then, they were left in their little world and little apartment. Roman sighed sleepily, falling down into sleep while Logan was left with a gentle hand on his face.

“Tell me to stay,” Logan whispered, watching the way Roman’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward to kiss him, feeling the heat of the fever between them. “Tell me to stay. I’ll stay.”

Roman smiled against his lips. “Go on, darling. You see what needs done… and you do it. You’re a good man. Go save lives.”

Logan felt something akin to guilt bubble up in him. Which didn’t make sense, considering Roman was sick often and he would always leave to go off to work unless Roman’s condition was far, far worse. This feeling wasn’t exactly what one would call ‘logical.’ It was more of a desperate, wild anxiety that _defied_ Logan’s logical outlook. Love seemed to do that… it liked to sneak up behind him and shake him until he couldn’t think straight.

Despite his anxiety, Logan left. He went about his work, taking his house-calls and travelling across the city in the cool, spring air. It would rain in the evening. Logan could feel it in his knees. He worked hard, though. He was determined to do everything he could in the light of the day so he could spend the evening with Roman uninterrupted. The city would have to find another doctor in the dead of night.

There was a knock on the clinic door midway through the afternoon. Logan was used to these afternoon visitations… especially when he left Roman at home. He opened the door and let the young boy inside.

“Afternoon, Nigel. What do you have for me today?”

The boy held out a letter, and Logan traded it for an apple. Nigel immediately took a bite. “He said somethin’ bout you leavin’ him behind.” Nigel paused, and Logan held out a kerchief for him to wipe the apple juice from his lips. “He said he’ll teach me to be a fence!”

“Don’t chew with your mouth full, Nigel.” Logan shook his head fondly and opened the letter. “And are you sure he didn’t offer to teach you _fencing?”_

“Somethin’ like that.”

Nigel sat on the chair for patients and chewed calmly, his little legs swinging where he sat and watched Logan read. Perhaps Nigel was just happy to have the simple job of ‘delivery boy’ that came with a payment nearly every day. Maybe he was enjoying Roman’s colorful and dramatic antics (when he was well enough to be so). Either way, he was calm and cheerful as he waited for Logan’s inevitable response.

Logan read, smiled, and tucked the note into his pocket. He’d have to add this to the growing stockpile of Roman’s letters. He had a box of them and soon the damn thing would be full. He wished that could be an inconvenience. But it wasn’t. It was more heartwarming than anything. Like a secret stash of Roman’s affection, locked away where no one else would know or read about them. He glanced at Nigel and handed him a coin for his trouble.

“Tell Roman that I’ll be back for supper.”

Nigel slid off the chair in time for a patient to come walking through the door. He tipped his little, floppy cap and slipped out the door. Did he know he was delivering love letters and fond promises? Delicate poetry that crawled along Logan’s skin and made his heart ache? Did he know he was run-between for two men who were stupidly in love? He didn’t. He was just earning a little money in a world that desperately wanted to shove him into a factory for cheap labor. This way, he was free to run, laugh, and play. Free to find shelter in a warm clinic in the winter, and a cool apartment in the heat of summer. And free hear the ramblings of a sick, feverish artist that liked to lean in the doorway and wax poetic about a doctor.

Nigel didn’t mind these everyday tasks. He didn’t mind them one bit. Dr. Stein was a funny man. He was so stern and cold to adults… but when Nigel came knocking, he looked excited to see him. Like Nigel was going to give him a present for his hard work. And when he returned to Roman (if there was a message to return) he always had that warm, happy glow in his eyes. Like his Mum when Nigel brings her flowers; that same, shining look that made him look soft. Less like a rich man stooping low to talk to him, and more like an everyday man that just wanted to hear whatever the doctor had to say about him.

So he darted along the streets of London without worry or care. He returned to Mr. Kingsley, delivered his message, received another shilling for his trouble, and went on his way. Until the next day, when he would play go-between for them again. When he grew up, he wanted to be good friends with someone like Mr. Kingsley and Dr. Stein. To be such good friends, they would send messages across the city to one another. He envied them.

For he had yet to see two men who were so closely intertwined as Mr. Kingsley and His Doctor.

+++++

Thomas laughed a little, amused to see the way Logan’s hard eyes softened at the mention of Nigel. “So he was like the Victorian-era instant messaging service.”

“Yes.” Logan paused, “I do hope you understand I have no idea what that means.”

Thomas laughed again and went through the letters at his disposal. He had many of them. Plenty to fill the rest of the night, should he have the desire to listen and type for hours and hours. He sighed a little; would Roman ever come back? Were these letters doing anything? Was the message falling flat?

Was Roman ever going to come back completely? Or had his one appearance been the first and last time he would return? Thomas hated to know the answer. He could learn so much more, should Roman come back… maybe he’d be just as flowery and descriptive as Remus. But then again, Roman could _not_ come back. He could stay wherever he was, in the in-between that played a part after death. But then, what would happen to Logan? Would he sit here, reminiscing over the times they had together? Lonely for a foreseeable eternity?

No. Thomas pulled up the next letter. The others had been brought back with the progression of this story. Roman Kingsley would be no different. So he turned his laptop, showing Logan the next letter he wanted to have explained. It was one of the easiest. The one that he wanted _desperately_ to mean what he hoped it meant. Logan leaned forward to read.

Thomas said nothing. He didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t voice his ideas or suspicions… he just waited for Logan to lean back. And then… he smiled.

“He didn’t send this one.”

Thomas twitched where he sat, unsure of whether he should turn the laptop around. “He… he didn’t?”

“No,” Logan said softly. “He wrote this one while I was sitting in the room with him. It was… it was in spring, I believe…”

Thomas turned his laptop and listened carefully as Logan crossed his legs and started yet another small memory.

+++++

_My dearest,_

_I am Yours. And what a perfectly wonderful thing to be; to be not my own but another’s. For you to be mine and the world to be no one’s. There is no greater joy than being known by you in the heat of summer, into autumn, through the cold of winter and bleeding into the sweetness of spring. To belong so wholly despite the Everything of the world around us._

_My darling man, tear me asunder and let me be under your name. Rip me of my titles and let me be nothing but the one Beneath You. I would want it no other way._

_Yours entirely,_

_Roman_

+++++

There is a silence that comes with peace. A truly shallow sound. The kind of silence that doesn’t make you strain to hear, the sound of blood rushing in your ears as you _listen_. This silence was one of soft sounds. The absence of words… but filled with other things. The scratch of Roman’s pencil on parchment. The sounds of people through the open window. The wind coming through the room, rustling Logan’s open book where it sat in his lap. He didn’t read it. The book was just there for decoration. Even if he _wanted_ to read it, he wasn’t allowed.

“Lower your chin. No… just slightly. There you are, darling. Look to the left. The _left_ ,” Roman murmured this to himself as he drew. Logan wasn’t sure how he _knew_ if Logan even moved. His eyes flickered up so quickly… lingered… and then banished themselves back to the paper. He sketched and sketched… flipped a page and started over.

He had a delicate way of drawing when he started. All light lines and a carful tilt of his head. Now, he was making bold strokes. He leaned closer to the paper and looked up less frequently. Logan shifted where he sat, and Roman growled.

“No, the _left! To the left!”_

Logan looked to the left. It was an irritating place to look. Roman was on his right, sketching away… it was so much _nicer_ to look at Roman. He looked nice in spring. Like he was ushering in the season with a soft, careful hand. Picking up the fabric of the land and shaking out the snow before laying it all back down. Logan smiled at the thought; Roman as Persephone? Would that make him Hades? He was hardly the keeper or accountant of souls. And Roman was too warm for springtime. Perhaps Patton was spring. Virgil would make an accurate, realistic Hades. If Gods existed. Which they didn’t. Why was he thinking of this? Roman had been singing of Apollo the other night. Perhaps his current obsession with the pantheon was spreading.

“You’re _smiling_ ,” Roman muttered, almost like an afterthought. Logan studiously stared at the far-left corner of the room.

“Is that an issue?”

“No,” Roman murmured. There was a long pause. His pencil didn’t scratch across the parchment. It _felt_ like he was staring, unsure of how to proceed. Logan looked at him, and Roman smiled ever so slightly. “The light hit you just right. Your outline caught fire.” He marveled at this for a moment, his lips parted around words unsaid. Then he smiled again. “And your smile…”

“My smile?”

“You know I like it when you look smug,” Roman said as he turned a page in his sketchbook. A new sketch was started. “To the left, darling. That’s it… when you look smug, your entire being turns sharper. Cutting, but different from when you’re thoughtful.”

Logan sighed. “This is ridiculous.”

_“You’re_ ridiculous. Look left!”

Logan did. He didn’t think to stand up or drop the book from his lap. He listened to the silence of Roman working. The sound of him weaving into the sounds of the city outside the window. The scent of spring… greening earth and wet pavement. Lavender soaps that had somehow smudged the edges of Logan’s clothing. The heat of Roman still lingering in his skin, long after he left the apartment and went to work. It was renewed whenever he came home. Logan looked at him, and Roman pointed _to the left_. Logan looked away.

How long had it been since they’d met? A year? Two? It felt longer. The winters, springs, summers and autumns… all of it came together. An amassing of memories and information. All blending together into one category: _His Life with Roman Kingsley_.

He didn’t know that loving someone could mean something so different. That he’d _want_ to spend his life with someone. But there he was, watching Roman sketch him for the thousandth time. People were talking about two bachelors living in the same apartment. Neither of them had women to distract themselves with. Logan didn’t _want_ a woman. He didn’t want to put himself through that charade again… no, he wanted Roman Kingsley. And him alone.

“Roman,” he said gently.

“Hmm?”

“Marry me.”

The sketching continued. Softer, now. A little hesitant. “Come again, love?”

Logan’s words caught, but he repeated, “Marry me.”

Now the sketching stopped. Logan turned and saw Roman staring at him. The silence was louder without Roman’s sketching. The sounds of the city melted away. Roman’s eyes, green and vibrant as spring, stared into him.

“Do you have a ring?”

Logan blinked a few times. “Do I…?”

“Dee gave Remus his family ring,” Roman said. He set aside his sketchbook and went skittering for his chest of drawers. He quickly went into his sock drawer, pulling out a small box. “I’d… I’d been thinking… under different circumstances. But… but here we are. You ask like that… out of the blue.”

“Roman—”

“It might need to be resized,” Roman continued as he bounced across the floor and to Logan. He wasn’t given a chance to stand up before Roman was kneeling in front of him, taking Logan’s hand and pushing a ring onto his finger. He didn’t ask. He didn’t think to. He already knew what Logan’s answer would be.

The ring was heavy. Gold and unpolished for many years. It was a bit loose, but that was fine. There was careful knotwork around the band. It was a rich man’s ring. Logan never thought he’d wear such a thing. Now, it was the most precious thing he owned. Roman smiled at his star-struck expression.

“It was my father’s,” he said softly, like it needed to be said. Like it needed to be _cherished_. Logan looked at him helplessly. He didn’t have a ring from his parents. No ring to give to his lover. Roman smiled and put another, thinner ring in his hand. It was silver. A gem set in the center. A woman’s ring. Roman looked up at him and said, “My mother’s.”

With shaking hands, Logan took Roman’s left hand and slowly, carefully, pushed the ring onto his finger. It was a snug fit, but once it was on, it looked like it belonged there, on his hand. Logan felt his face burn and his vision go wobbly with unshed tears. He blinked them away and took a shuddering breath.

“I… I don’t know what we’d do for a ceremony,” he breathed, more disbelieving. It all happened so quickly. No real questions. Just answers. One action after another without prompting. It was _just like Roman_ to _not ask questions_.

And Roman smiled, reaching up to pull Logan into a kiss. “I know a liar who could find us a priest. I think we can make do.” Another kiss. “Would you help me into a dress?”

Logan feigned a grimace and Roman laughed. “All that effort for _clothing_.”

“Someday it’ll be simple,” Roman promised with another kiss. Logan touched their foreheads together and Roman smiled. “Someday… even the law won’t be able to pull us apart.”

“An elegant lie.”

“A lovely one, darling,” Roman kissed him again. “One that we’ll share.”

The sketchbooks went ignored for the rest of that bright afternoon. The silence was broken by laughter and sighs and soft, whispered words. Affirmations. Adorations. Affectionate alliteration at its most appreciated state. London bloomed with spring, and Logan held Roman in his arms, a shaking laugh startled from him as he held on tight. Roman kissed his hair and held him close.

For a short while, they were the only two people in the world. Together, in that moment, the world was a kind place where they were to be wed without issue. The world was a place where each breath was protected after the next. Where they would be so completely accepted, there was no reason to fear. They were in love. Roman kissed him, and for all intents and purposes, to Logan, they were already wed. Before the eyes of any god in which Roman held faith, in the eyes of the world, anything and everyone in-between… they were together.

And that… that was all Logan had… _ever_ …

+++++

He had stopped mid-sentence.

Thomas sat on his bed with his hands in his lap. Logan was pacing the room; even thought he’d been calm throughout the early evening, he was getting restless. Thomas couldn’t blame him. His history was being laid bare, and he didn’t seem happy about it. He said it was private. He said he didn’t want people to know. But there it was. In black and white with the cursor blinking away, waiting for more to be written. He paced, and Thomas didn’t dare to interrupt him.

After a few long minutes, Logan stopped. He stared at the wall, like it held the answers in its faded, tired wallpapers. “I don’t _like_ to having all of this… _this_ ,” he indicated to the laptop, “Put to paper.”

Thomas felt like he was being scolded. “I know.”

“I let myself be caught up in your antics but… that afternoon was _private_. All of these moments were _private_. Between Roman and I alone.”

“I know.”

Logan paused, leaning his hand on the back of Thomas’s desk chair. It looked like the furniture was the only thing holding him up. It was astonishing, seeing Logan like this. So raw and frustrated… he looked broken in some way. And Thomas knew exactly why. He looked away when Logan turned to face him, like he was scared to see those stormy eyes pointed at him.

“There is no guarantee that this will bring him back,” Logan said sternly. Thomas nodded. “Do you know how painful this is? I can’t even see him. I can’t even _see_ —” he stopped, took a calming breath, and looked away. Thomas finally lifted his head.

“I can’t… _begin_ to imagine what you’ve been through. The time you’ve spent waiting.”

Logan’s eyes fixed on the wall and he didn’t turn away. “I don’t know what became of me. I remember the wind and rain cold on my face. I remember… the river below me.” A pause, and then, “I remember… hoping to find him. Thinking that somehow, despite the odds… despite thinking there’s nothing… _after the after_ … I thought I might find him.”

Logan sat down in the desk chair, his shoulders slumped and eyes tired as he glanced at the computer. “I… I couldn’t go back,” he said, “To the apartment. After he died.”

Thomas said nothing. There was nothing he _could_ say. Logan went on.

“It was… the first real _home_ I’d had since I was a child. I’d… I had a clinic. An office. A desk on which to work.” He paused, his hands working at the cuffs of his sleeves as he smiled a bit. “Living with him… in that apartment. It was unlike anything I’d ever known. In the morning, he greeted me with eyes that made me feel like I was the reason the sun rose… a gentle ‘good morning’ that I’d become so accustomed to… in the evening, he called me to bed and wished me goodnight.

“How could I go back?” He asked, that hopeless tone in his voice as he looked at the floor. Thomas watched him fidget with his hands, his fingers shaking as he said, “How could I go back to that place? Back to what was a home, after he was gone? There weren’t any more ‘good mornings’ or ‘good nights.’ Not without him. How was I to go back when there was no one left? No one left to say—”

“Welcome home.”

It wasn’t alarming to hear this voice; Thomas had been hoping for it. Scared that it wouldn’t come. A voice, softer than Remus’s. Smooth and oaky. The sound of a narrator’s voice… but subdued. Tired. Thomas and Logan turned, seeing Roman Kingsley standing in the doorway of the office. He looked straight at Logan, his eyes shining with tears… but he smiled. He smiled, and it shone in the dim lights of an old, old house.

Logan stood from his chair suddenly, like he’d forgotten that he was sitting. He took a hesitant step forward… then another… Roman met him halfway, reaching up and holding Logan’s face. The contact made Logan freeze. It was as if he thought Roman would disappear if they touched. But he didn’t. Thank god he didn’t. He stood there, holding Logan’s face and smiling so sadly… they embraced, and Thomas was surprised the world didn’t collapsed around them from the force of it.

Roman’s hands were shaking as they went through Logan’s hair, carding through and reaching down to grasp at his collar, his vest, his sleeves. Touching anything and everything, just to make sure Logan was really, truly there. The irony was despairingly painful; Logan was just as afraid to know he wasn’t real. To know that it was all a mistake or twist of fate. Because even if Logan had been waiting in plain sight, _so had Roman_. He’d been in pain, just like him. Unable to reach out and tell him anything. To comfort Logan in his waiting. So they held each other, and Thomas didn’t dare say a word.

After a few, tense moments of just _holding on_ , Roman murmured against Logan’s collar. “I’m sorry.” Logan hugged him closer, and Roman kissed his neck before pressing his nose to Logan’s collar again. “I… I was _looking_ for you… waiting. Hoping that…”

“I couldn’t find you,” Logan whispered hoarsely, a pained desperation in his voice as he spoke. “I reached… and found nothing. Everything was so empty without you, I—”

“I’m sorry,” Roman said again, “I’m _sorry_.”

Logan shook his head, stepping back to cup Roman’s face and hold him in place. _“I’m_ sorry. I couldn’t… I couldn’t _save_ you from—”

“No one could’ve saved me,” Roman said softly. “Not from consumption. Not twice. Once was a miracle, and even then, miracles don’t land on the same man twice. You know that. You’re too smart to think you could’ve bested it.” He pulled Logan down for a kiss, and it lasted a long while before Roman sighed shakily. “I thought… I’d never be able to kiss you again.”

“Roman,” Logan whispered, his voice trembling, “Where… where did you _go?”_

Roman looked up at him hopelessly, his smile shuddering as his green eyes flickered fearfully. “I don’t… I don’t know. But I heard you. I heard… Remus and Andréa. And Patton. And that _damn_ engraver of his…” he chuckled and kissed Logan again. “I heard you, darling. And I tried…” his voice caught, and he tried again, “I tried so _desperately_ to reach you…”

“I have you,” Logan promised with a laugh, his voice still a little shaky as he brushed a thumb over Roman’s cheek. “You’re here. I have you.”

“I’ve missed you,” Roman whispered desperately. He smiled through the tears, kissing Logan hard before holding himself to Logan. “I’ve missed you so, _so much…”_

“So have I,” Logan breathed as he held him. It was clear in his words. In every action he took since Roman’s death. And then his own. Every second between them. It was obvious, but he said it anyway. Just to confirm what had hurt for over a hundred years. “So have I.”

Thomas had his hands in his lap as he watched this reunion. He waited for them to disappear like Patton and Virgil, off to the in-between place where they could talk and touch in privacy… but there they stayed. Holding each other and swaying ever-so-slightly. Roman’s eyes opened and he peeked over Logan’s shoulder at him, a fond sort of _something_ glittering in his eyes as he smiled.

“You there… boy,” he said, a slight smile in the words. Thomas waved shyly.

“Hey.” He pointed at himself. “Thomas.”

Roman nodded and rubbed Logan’s back. The doctor seemed keen on holding him until the sun burned out. Thomas didn’t blame him. Roman spoke over his shoulder. “I heard Logan describing my letters. I believe I remember… something before that, too.”

Thomas twitched and rubbed his hands together. “You mean the day you just… kinda… _appeared_ in the doorway?”

Roman blinked. “Is that what happened? I remember…” he went a little distant as he closed his eyes and leaned his cheek against Logan’s. “I remember feeling the heat of a fever. Remembering the way Logan kissed that woman…”

Logan leaned back. “Who…? Emily?” He seemed genuinely confused. “Roman, that was so long ago.”

“But it felt like it _just_ happened!” Roman said fervently, his hands laced together behind Logan’s neck as he spoke firmly. “What a tide time can be… a tempest of memories is nothing against what I recall in tranquility.”

Logan took a deep breath, shook his head, and sighed fondly. “I can’t believe how much I’ve missed your unnecessarily poetic ways.”

Roman smiled thinly. “Darling, I’m not sure if I should kiss you or be offended.”

Logan’s expression melted down into an anxious grimace. “This… this young man. Thomas. He’s been writing our history.”

Roman blinked. “Our history.”

“It reads like a sad romance novel,” Thomas said awkwardly as he gestured to the laptop “See… Remus and Dee started it—”

“Remus?” Roman said, his eyes lighting up at the mention of his name. He stepped away from Logan but held onto his arms tightly. “I remember… I remember seeing him here. Is he here? With Andréa?” Thomas barely had a chance to raise his hand and point to the hallway before Roman kissed Logan and darted for the door. He was shouting, “Remus! You damnable swamp-creature! Where are you?”

Thomas skittered to his feet and followed Logan to the stairs, watching the way Remus came tearing from the dining room. He and Roman crashed into each other at the foot of the stairs, a tangle or laughter and shaking sobs as they grabbed one another and held tight. Remus cursed him for hiding away in the depths of the afterlife. Roman pinched him for not calling his name. They scolded one another for _daring_ to die… and they hugged. They hugged, and they looked terrified. Like they were afraid to let go.

When Dee stepped close, Roman released his brother. He kissed Dee and held him, too. It was a marry-go-round of frantic, disbelieving embraces. Patton cried as he held Roman, so shaken up and surprised, it seemed like _he_ was the long-lost lover and not Logan. It was a tearful reunion… but a _happy_ one. And it was about damn time for things to be happy. There had been too much loss. Too much pain. This was a welcome change.

Roman stood back and looked at Virgil with a wry smile. “Still wearing that _dreadful_ coat, I see.”

Virgil blinked and put on a defensive glare that held no bite. “I was _buried_ in this coat. Are you really going to poke fun at a dead man?”

Roman tipped his head back and laughed, and Thomas could see the smile on Logan’s face as he watched. They were at the top of the stairs, watching the interaction from a safe, comfortable distance while Roman was held and touched and spoken to. Thomas looked at him.

“Don’t you want to be down there?” He asked. “I mean… you’ve been looking for him all this time.”

“I’m not the only one who missed him, Thomas,” Logan murmured softly, that fond smile on his face. His eyes shone. Lightning on the water. A storm far, far away at sea. But calm waters on the shore. He smiled, and there was contentment in his eyes. “I have an eternity to make up for the time I lost with him.”

Thomas leaned his arms on the banister, looking down at the first-floor landing. Roman Kingsley was there. Shining like a beacon among his friends as he laughed and smiled. It made Thomas’s chest feel light. After all that time… after looking for him for so long. After hoping for insight on these letters… he was right there. Thomas could ask him _so_ _many_ questions. He could ask for proof of his and Logan’s relationship. He’d put together a thesis. He’d set the history books right.

But he’d do that later. There was time to let Roman greet his friends and family. There was time to let him and Logan embrace and kiss. There was _more_ than enough time… and Thomas would let him breathe easy. He would let the old scars mend and burns cool. It was needed, after all. Because loss can still cut deep, even after a hundred years. And fear was not so easily forgiven.

People can say that _time heals all wounds_ … but the heart needs to be open to the healing. There needs to be clean air to breathe. And Thomas would give it. If it would heal the pain that the Kingsley Brothers endured for years and years… Logan, Patton, Virgil, and Dee… any amount of time was worth spending. After all, he was a historian. He knew their lives better than anyone. Especially after living in the Duell Estate for so long. For being the man to _write_ it. For hearing the tears and the shouting and the laughter. He knew their story.

And he’d spend whatever time it took to set the record straight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's okay, you can breathe now.  
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes


	15. Epilogue

Sunlight was shy that particular morning. Almost like it wasn’t confident where it peaked out from behind white, cotton clouds. Thomas woke up when the sunlight had come through the slats of the blinds, hiding his face behind his hands as he sighed and stretched.

He sat up, looked at his empty office and said; “Good morning!”

The Duell Estate was quiet in response. The usual chirps and clicks of spry wood settling and shifting greeted him like a fond grandparent, and Thomas smiled as he kicked himself out of bed and got dressed.

He wanted to make waves in the historical community, and with the evidence given to him by Anonymous Third Parties, he was able to complete a thesis. It was up for reviewing that afternoon. He needed to defend it. If he did so properly, he would be a doctor. _Dr. Sanders_. A PhD in gay poetry. What an honor.

He picked up his thesis; it was thick and heavy, hardly held together by the large binder clip on the edge. Dee had insisted there be a protective sleeve over the entire thing, and Thomas had complied; the covering folder was a deep burgundy. Now all he had to do was get to the office in time.

Things in the historical house had changed as of late. Other members of the local historical society were insisting that Thomas, a fine historian, was not able to keep the house in good shape. One person was hardly enough to maintain upkeep… and yet, upon inspection, the house was looking better than ever before. Almost like there were several people going up and down the halls, dusting, shaking out the musty blankets, and shining the original brass doorknobs. The complaints ended after two different inspectors went through the house in crisp white gloves, commending Thomas on his ability to care for such an old house.

But that defense wasn’t enough to fend off changes.

The house was up for a spot of tourism. It was taking up space and it was protected… it was about time it was opened to the public. Thomas has previously been unsure of this, but after discussing this idea with the household, he agreed. This history needed to be known… upon the condition that his study and work could be put into practice.

After plenty of infighting, the request was accepted.

So things changed. Old plaques were repaired or replaced. Special “Do Not Touch” signs were put on certain doors. The protective plastic on the tables was removed and replaced with better plexiglass. Red velvet ropes were placed in front of the dining room — and Thomas’s own office, labeled “Staff.”

He bounced down the stairs, knocking on the banister as he went.

“Morning Patton, morning Virge.” The stairs knocked back pleasantly. Swinging into the dining room, Thomas went for the kitchen, calling a loud, “Morning Dee! Morning Remus!” as he went. He made coffee, burned his tongue on the first sip, and headed for the door. Just in time.

Someone knocked and Thomas uses his sleeve to turn the brass knob and let in a pair of workers.

“Morning, guys. Come on in.”

Charles (Chuck) and Sam stepped inside, their clean white gloves on and several new signs under their arms. They knew Thomas by now… along with the interesting sounds the house could make. On cue, a door further in the house slammed shut. Chuck laughed. Sam didn’t.

“Looks like the ghosts know we’re here!” Chuck laughed and nudged Sam, who still didn’t smile. Thomas laughed and juggled his coffee and thesis while holding open the door.

“Yeah… be careful with this old house, guys. It’s got… a _lot_ of personality.”

Sam watched Thomas shuffle toward the driveway that went around back. “Off to your thesis mee’ing?”

“Yup. Wish me luck!” Sam wasn’t given the chance. The front door slammed shut and cut him off. Thomas sighed and waved at the Duell house. “Thanks, Remus!”

In the upstairs window, a white fog lingered. But if Thomas turned to look at it, the shape disappeared. He smiled anyway and said, “Thanks, Roman.”

+++++

Defending a thesis is no easy feat. And it isn’t one that would willingly be repeated or documented. No, the sweaty palms and racing heart was a one thing to go through _once._ And that was it.

Thomas returned to the Duell Estate with shaking hands and a PhD. The thesis was accepted. Roman’s story was accepted. _The history was quantified and qualified._ It was more than a victory in his eyes. The only thing that made it better? Thomas got to play Story Time with every group of tourists that came through the house. On guided tours, he played storyteller to anyone who listened. The stories were real and the emotions still bubbled, restless and exciting. And people _listened._

“... and here,” Thomas said with a gesture to Roman’s painting, “Is a painting done by the late Roman Kingsley. The Kingsley Summer Home was a gift from Roman’s father to his mother, and they spent many summers on holiday there.” The group of tourists stopped and stared, oohing and murmuring thoughtfully. Thomas saw a flicker of a shadow in the corner of his eye. He didn’t follow it. Instead, he smiled. “You might notice this is the only painting by Roman Kingsley in the home; that’s because this painting was Roman’s dying gift to his twin brother, Remus.”

People glanced at him, and Thomas held up his hands. “I know, I know… it’s a lot of names. But hear me out: Remus Kingsley was actually the husband of the late, great, Andréa, or Dee, Duell the second. It’s why so many of his works are on display in the home.”

He led them to a new room. “Here, we have the office where Mr. Dee did his public work. Unlike his personal office on the second floor, he did more of his business meetings in this particular room. He was not only a banker, but an underground businessman as well. Our tour of the basement earlier really highlights that. Now, feel free to look around but _please_ do not touch the desk or the brass fixtures. I’m here if you have questions.”

While an excited woman named Dot dragged her husband Larry over to the bookshelf to take several candid photos, Thomas stood to the side and watched for any breaks in tour etiquette. It was surprising; it wasn’t just English locals coming for tours. Americans like Larry and Dot were coming to see what was on display. Tourists from all over Europe and Asia were coming to learn about Dee and Remus… Roman and Logan… it was all laid out and history was being preserved. Maybe it was because tourists would _always_ love to look at historical buildings. But it didn’t matter. People _knew_. And people _accepted_ them. It made Thomas’s heart all warm and tingly.

“‘Scuse me?” Thomas jumped when someone approached him, a bright face with a smile and round, thick-framed glasses. He had an accent. Minnesotan? Canadian? The man worried his hands and said, “I’m sorry to bug you. You looked lost in thought.”

“No, no worries. What’s up?”

The man smiled and fidgeted with his pink necktie, a little bouncy where he stood. “I think I lost my husband.”

Thomas stared at him. “You _think?”_

“Well… I mean, he doesn’t always like these touristy places. He’s… well, he’s blind. So he doesn’t get all of the artsy things. He likes going to places where he can _hear_ and _touch_ things.”

Thomas nodded slowly. “Oh- _kay…”_

“But I insisted!” The man said brightly, “I said, to know your future, it’s always good to know the past!”

“Inspiring. I think.”

The man giggled and shrugged. “I say it to my patients when I ask them questions about their past.” A pause. “I’m a therapist! Gosh, I should’ve explained that. Dr. Picani.” He held out his hand and Thomas shook it. It was like talking to a cartoon character. That wasn’t entirely a bad thing. Picani smiled. “Just call me Emile.”

“I’m Thomas. So… your husband?”

Emile blinked and sputtered back into focus like a confused microscope. “Right! See, I told him we should come here because we were looking into his ancestry!” That wasn’t remotely what Thomas meant, but he nodded indulgently, and Emile went on. “We looked into it, and apparently, Remy is related to the Kingsley’s! I thought that was so cool.”

Thomas blinked and felt a jolt. Had Remus or Roman had a child? “Which Kingsley?”

“Oh uh...Frank? Franklin Kingsley.”

“Oh. Roman and Remus’s uncle.”

Emile giggled and bounced. “Wow, you really know the family tree!” 

Thomas smiled. “I’ve been studying them for a while. Now… you lost your husband?”

Again, Emile flickered back into focus. “Oh, Remy… last place I saw him was in the upstairs bedroom. I wanted to know if I could go back up there.”

Thomas glanced around; there were other staff that kept an eye on things during the day. And _plenty_ of them were better at handling people who touched things they ought not touch. So Thomas sighed and gestured to the door. He led Emile out of the office and up the stairs (don’t touch the walls, please) and into one of the guest bedrooms. Nothing. Another bedroom. Nothing. The next door shut on its own before they got there. Emile gave it a scared look, but Thomas skipped it and went to the next room, and that was where the found him.

Remy was a skinny little thing. Clad in a leather jacket and dark jeans, he was a stark contrast against the crisp pink blankets on the bed and the green carpet. He was thin but relaxed where he stood, like a curved C holding his cane and staring at the middle of the room. It looked like he was talking to someone… but when Thomas and Emile stepped into the room, he went quiet. He looked confused.

“Hello? He _llo?”_ He clicked his tongue. “Rude. I know you’re still here. I would’ve heard you walk away.”

Emile glanced at Thomas and shrugged helplessly. Thomas smiled and said nothing. Emile stepped forward. “Rem? Honey? Who are you talking to?”

Remy blinked and swiveled in their direction. His sunglasses glinted oddly in the lamp light. “Babe. Tell this guy he’s being rude.”

Emile looked around the room and smiled oddly. “Tell… who? We’re the only ones in here. You, me, and Thomas, the tour guide.”

Remy made a face and reached to the open air to his right. “This guy! The guy who was…” his hand swung through the empty air and he looked more concerned than irritated. “He was… he was right here. If this is a joke, it’s like. _Hella_ bs. Emmy. Don’t lie to me.”

Emile stepped forward and took his hand. “I’m not lying, Rem. There’s no one here.”

Remy glowered and Thomas could see it through his sunglasses. “Fucking bullshit.”

_“Remy.”_

“I was _talking_ to him. Like. Really real and… he had one of those British accents. You _know_ I love accents.”

Emile smiled shyly and patted his hand. “I know.”

Remy reached out again, swinging his cane through the open air before Emile took his hand and lowered his cane back to the floor. _“Emmy_ …”

“I heard you, sweetheart.”

“He was _right there._ ”

Emile glanced at Thomas. “I’m…” he glanced back to Remy. “I don’t know what to say. There’s… there’s no one here.”

“He was like… one of those history-reenacting people. He was talkin’ about the Kingsley’s. I told him Franklin was my like… great, great grandpa, and he was all, ‘Oh! Uncle Franklin!’ It was _so_ weird.”

Thomas smiled when Emile started to look more and more desperate. Remus or Roman? Who had spoken to their young family descendant? Thomas shrugged politely when Emile looked at him.

“Remy… you’re starting to scare me. I’m trying to communicate with you… and you’re making me nervous. There’s no one else here.”

Remy glared in his direction. “This is like that bullshit when you go _‘there is no war in Ba Sing Se,’_ babe.”

Still, Emile fidgeted and held Remy’s hand. “Maybe you’re tired. Maybe you need to lie down.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s an old house. It has a lot of personality,” Thomas said with a smile. Both men looked at him. The curtains by the window fluttered. The window wasn’t open. There was no breeze. Thomas’s smile softened. “And a _lot_ of history.”

Remy purses his lips. “So what? You think I was talking to a ghost?”

Thomas couldn’t lose his smile. “I didn’t say anything about ghosts. Let’s go back downstairs, shall we? I can show you the dining room again.”

Thomas led them out of the guest room, his safe, cotton gloves brushing over the brass fixtures before they left. The floors creaked and clicked and sighed. Remy, Emile, and Thomas went downstairs and left the room empty. Empty, but not uninhabited. A soft, fond laugh caught in the air. The blankets shifted as something — or someone — fell onto the bed. One laugh joined the other. A happy, ringing sound that lingered in the air.

Roman or Remus? Which man wandered out of the in-between with his husband? It didn’t matter. They were happy. The story was told. Thomas conducted his tours during the day and spoke to long-dead poets by night. He received plenty of comments on dark shapes and shadows in the gardens and halls. Laughter in the rafters and whispers in the rooms. Joy, however poetic and ghostly, was living in this house.

And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

\+ END +

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Let's all breathe a sigh of relief! The story has been set straight. Roman Kingsley's story has been put to paper.  
> History, despite what we are told, has proven love conquers all. No matter who you are, no matter who you choose to love, your story is one of ups and downs... but someday, a tired historian will write your story and people will cry over your struggles.  
> Yes, that metaphor certainly holds up.  
> Thank you everyone for reading! It was a journey all the way to the end. Thank you to everyone who read as it updated and thank you to everyone that will read when it's already finished.  
> I'm on tumblr @misplaced-my-notes, feel free to come by and say hi! Thank you again.  
> See you in the next story!


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